BY THE LIGHT OF THE LOCAL SPAR

 

Eyes snapped shut in the street-facing bedroom

lit up by the light of the Spar

that floods it's white plastic windows

illuminating each passing car

 

 

In her curled up hands a faded old photo

crinkled,yellowing,torn,

but the hands,once so gentle,that hold this mementoe,

are as cold,are as granite, as stone

 

In came Sister with a meagre tea tray

barging in,past the bed,past the chair,

but Sister's time was nearly done,her shift almost won,

and the truth was,she'd long ceased to care

 

 

Pushing open the small top window,

then sweeping the curtains to one side

she adjusts the heating's thermostat,

setting it's dial to five

 

Then,”Tea-time”,she shouts,in a patronising voice,

 time to get up! It's nearly seven!”

 oh,the joys of being trapped in a modern care home

 caught somewhere between hell and heaven

 

Don't you know that the paintwork is fading?

can't you see that the bodyclock will stop?

in those satanic,piss-filled corridors,

can't you hear them,one by one drop?

 

 

Sister turned,saw the unmoving bed,

saw the mask of death for a face

whilst the glow of the Spar,in the evening,

hung eerily over the place

 

 

Moving the tea-tray and it's catchment of pills,

onto the flat-topped trolley in the hall,

she briskly marches down carpet-worn stairs

to greet another, waiting guest,in the hall.