Warrick Wynne’s Poetry Pages

reading, writing and the connections

Alzheimers

for Iris

She recognises your children rarely now,
but sometimes she’ll surprise you,
speak for whole vivid moments on end
without the present
and what’s become of us all;
making sense.
You wonder when she’ll forget you
and what will be left at the end
and you find yourself
divorcing yourself in anticipation

Fragments of song remain,
as fragile things like pottery
will sometimes be unearthed,
music, and the overwhelming desire
to walk and walk, forever if she could,
some private map of the streets of her marriage,
tapping her hand lightly
to an invisible tune
or frowning slightly at some misbehaviour,
as she might have done when your mother.
You find yourself wondering,
should you map these journeys or these tunes,
as if such patterns could help.

In such moments together
you long to make contact,
can almost sense its closeness,
how some scent or tune might bring it all back
and her face would come alive with its own shape,
and her voice would spring alive with its old desire
to please, saying, ‘hello, where have I been?’
‘have I been away?’, ‘what am I doing here?’
and, ‘why are you crying?’

Written by warrick

December 24, 2007 at 3:21 pm

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