An old poem revisited

In one of my manic phases, a few years ago now, I took to writing poetry, and gave it up again when I returned to normal, as you do.  The following effort is of obvious relevance to this blog:

Edith

Gradually things stop happening.  The fortnightly
drip of her neice's letters slows as if someone's
tightened the washer.  A former neighbour manages
the awkward double bus journey across town to
Camelia House (Rusty Sidings, as Edith calls the place)
only when her gaoler, arthritis, nods at his post.
The vicar drops by with his back of a lorry eucharist.
It breaks up the day, much like a zimmer frame trudge
to the loo.  The telly prattles to itself in the corner;
Edith can't focus, not in these glasses, and her ears
are due for a syringe.  She flips to the end of her large
print whodunnit (implausible plot, no characters
likeable), checking her guess at the culprit.  Thought
it was him.  This afternoon in the non-smoking lounge
there'll be Joyce Grenfell monologues, and songs
from old shows, presented by Maurice and Lorna
with Duncan on keyboard.  They don't mean to patronise,
but Edith could tell them it's Wednesday, and who the
Foreign Secretary is, not like most of these bangers
and moaners and why don't we all sit legs apart like
lock gates and show the world our knickers?  Because
losing your dignity is like falling asleep: you only see it
happen to others.  When your time comes you don't
know.  Spare me that, Edith prays to the air with
its tang of incontinence.

Answered prayers don't always look like a dead
spinster, to whom the vicar is glad he gave communion
so recently, while her next-of-kin neice will be
saving on stamps, feeling guilty at feeling relieved
that the stroke was as massive as out of the blue.
She wasn't your invalid type, not our Edith;
few invalids are. Slipped in her armchair, her new
library book on her lap, open at page 38: by which time
the mystery is announced, though not of course
solved.  Much as in life.   Favourite author of Edith's,
she thought though: not as good as she once was,
she's tired, running out of ideas.  Aren't we all. And
whether she checked the last chapter to see if she'd
fingered the villain, as usual, before she ran out
of ideas altogether; whether her last thought was
 "that explains everything" - God knows.

Perhaps.

-o0o-



It comes, clearly, out of my experiences as a clergyman going round old folks' homes.  "Edith" will have been some composite of the church members I'd visited, in full possession of their own marbles but placed, not to say dumped, in some wretched place where most of the residents were far gone with dementia.  I make no great claims for it; the mannered line breaks remind me that I'd been reading the poetry of R S Thomas before my muse decided to run amok, but clearly his craft and concentration have completely failed to rub off on me.  On the other hand I wouldn't be reproducing it here if I didn't feel it had something to convey.

Edith's death was timely, she "wasn't the invalid type"; but that's a hollow sentiment, as I immediately acknowledge - "few invalids are".  Which brings me back to Dad.  He's not the type to get dementia, to be bundled off into a care home, and my wife always reckoned he'd go, when he went, suddenly - like Edith.  it would be in keeping with the kind of person he is.  But we don't all get lucky, like Edith; and of course there is no dementia type.  Why the condition strikes some and not others is not really understood, there's neither rationale nor justice in it.  Spare me that, was Edith's prayer, seemingly "answered"; but it's too late for Dad, his dignity already slipping away and he's the only one who doesn't know.

One little detail "dates" the piece in a way I couldn't have predicted - the reference to a non-smoking lounge!