Harvest Home

The afternoon
Spent luxuriously
In a plastic chair
At the bedside of mum
Dozy, pale, frowzy

Her legs just like mine
Under cellular blankets
The kind I look at and think
“that won’t keep you warm”
But turn out to be toasty

Drip and cannula, blood pressure
Cups of sweet tea
Dry air, warm air
Nurses chat

I tune out
Who knows if this is normal?
We close the door and
The quiet envelops us
I close my eyes to pray

Apart from kind nurses popping in
It’s a flower centre
With petals closed
It’s a cocoon of blissful rest
It’s a four poster feather bed
With the curtains drawn.

Its enwrapment of love
And one, two, three hours go by
In quick succession
And I with my book reading
A poem at a time.

The costa guy asked what I was
Reading – “Modern Women Poets”
And he said
“Nothing there for me”
Why not? Men can read
Poems by women.

And the time runs through a sieve
And the next thing the nurse says we
May go
Luckily we haven’t been fed
The institutionalisation
Hasn’t set in yet

We feel no tie
And are able to quickly
Change into our out-door
Clothing
We head for the taxi rank
I feeling like an escaped convict
Hoping our luck won’t run out
Before we make our get away
Home.



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