Drift

Until December he had seemed ok;

Aging yes, but mind alert and bright

Even if his conversation raced

Inevitably to Oxfam and a foray

Against RMH and his pension rights,

With letters of complaint - all double spaced.

Then, almost before we knew, he'd slipped away

Into a world where even when he spoke

It wasn't to us, or for us to hear.

He tapped out endless labels on his tray

Or sang songs from his childhood, which provoked

Quiet tears, though he was not aware.

I held his hand and hoped that he might know;

We spoke and hoped that he would understand,

But realised in those few moments when

He was himself, he had no memory

Of who was there or what was said to him.

And so it drifts, like childhood's rest returning

Where sleep and wake are equally untrue.

In hospital once more, linked to the drips

Which keep his body going, if not his mind,

He talks of trainig for the RAF,

Saying we've passed, but he is not yet fit

To be a pilot; then for a little time

Sleep flies him out, while we wait on, bereft.

Twenty years ago I thought I'd known

Something of him, andd had felt quite close.

Even if rarely seen, we seemed to share

Some sense that he and I, unspoken, had grown

To value who we were, but now the loose

Connective has been lost, and all I do is stare.

Down at the tight fit sheets upon his bed,

The pulsing drips and last week's wilting flowers,

Snatched conversations, nurses by the door,

Realising, as he turns his head

Towards the wall, no matter how many hours

I stay with him, I could not miss him more.

Brian Hick May 2009

©copyright Sally Hick May 2022