Читать книгу Notes From the Dementia Ward - Finuala Dowling - Страница 3

At eighty-five, my mother’s mind

When she wanders from room to room

looking for someone who isn’t there,

when she asks where we keep the spoons,

when she can’t chew and spits out her food,

when her last dim light flickers with falling ash

and she exclaims: ‘What a dismal end to a brilliant day!’

when she calls her regular laxative an astronaut,

when she can’t hear words but fears sounds,

when she says: ‘Don’t go – I can’t bear it when you go,’

or: ‘Just run me off the cliff,’

or wants to know how many Disprin ends it,

then I think how, at eighty-five,

my mother’s mind is a castle in ruin.

Time has raised her drawbridge, lopped her bastions.

Her balustrade is crumbled, and she leans.

Yet still you may walk these ramparts in awe.

Sometimes when she speaks, the ghostly ensign flies.

Time cannot hide what once stood here,

or its glory.

Do not think that we are good

or merely tourists.

That which detains us

was once our fortress.