We shout quietly into mother's failing ear,

conscious of the others in the ward,

though their faces suggest they are absent.

She is sure that the thing which takes her temperature

is making her hearing worse.

Frail ladies clutch flimsy nighties

to skeletal bones,

while horsey voiced visitors

boom into unhearing ears.

A huge man in a greatcoat

strokes his lush, black beard

and fingers the silver cross

which nestles in his badge colection.

Menacing in stature, but meek of manner,

this Rasputin wanders

as his concentration lapses.

He is brought back to his dribbling relative

by the gentle, guiding hand

of an elderly father.

Is there any contact

between the voiceless senility

and the schizoid delusion?

Does the the blood that binds them

make understanding flow?

Mother ticks her menu sheet

although all the choices

taste the same.

The bland, mush of nutrition

makes her yearn

for the chips she despises.

Her strong heart passes tests

and she is freed.

The Rasputin lady's

empty head

gets new blood

from fresh cut valves.

Her deluded mind

can ramble strong

with a sturdy pump.

Mother's sharp brained

frail form,

walks from the ward.

Awareness dulled

by eardrums long destroyed.