Читать книгу Notes From the Dementia Ward - Finuala Dowling - Страница 6

Mere oblivion

I cannot stop them;

they come with us,

my mother’s former selves:

blurred box-brownie baby from Ficksburg,

skinnymalinks hand-standing at the Wilderness,

buxom WAF officer in her pips,

aquiline actress, face turned to the light,

amused matriarch captioned ‘dear Octopus?’

unamused wife of an alcoholic,

glamorous widow,

charmer of bank managers,

sudden understudy:

drama teacher, estate agent, broadcaster and

at last, travelling grandmother

with quip, quote, recipe

and iodine for everything.

I cannot stop them;

they come with us,

touching the bent one gently.

Not quite the riddle of the Sphinx,

not quite the March of Progress.

More like melancholy Jacques,

if you can imagine

all seven ages (and more) on stage at once,

waiting as a cast waits

for the house lights to come up,

for mere oblivion.