A holiday today, a long weekend
Mum wouldn't know it, every day is the same now
Spring too, the parade of flowers has begun -
the heavenly sweet citrus sepals of Daphne,
late Winter really, she didn't sense it pass
the temperature is constant in the nursing home,
she knows hot and cold, sometimes she is so cold.
The golden wattle shouts her Spring proclamation.
Mum's senses deteriorate, where once she could hear
the sweet swing band surge and feel the tight
syncopated rhythm quicken her pulse
all so long ago, now she looks significantly
as though you've said something
of import, her surge and swing evanescent
evading her recall, with the salty wild pheromone
of a dancing partner, 'never the same each night!'
she'd toast and laugh, a mischievous twinkle
in her eyes, that right now are shutting down.
The pink mouthed magnolia beseeches the sky.
'I might tell my secrets with a top up of wine'
and she clutched them close for their warmth in the night.
The cherry tree weeps all her tiny white tears.
She strains for words, names, then in a moment
of clarity, 'I know, I know what I must do.'