We really should have read the signs:
the glass paned door, like afterthought,
the rare-used tarmac covered path
the corridor from A to B,
for those intent on getting there.
The Sister took us,
a warder to defend her cause,
too much gabble, knowing all,
compassion as a gossamer.
We lapped it up as puppies might,
for She was god-like, trusted here,
and we of other disciplines,
not rude enough as others, right.
Mum gobbled at our offered sponge,
her blistered tongue dehydrate clue,
but, unattuned to obvious,
we trusted Trust, as taught to do,
for She mature, blue uniformed.
I dare not let my mind go there -
this verse creeps twenty five years on -
that dark place where our mother’s care
was in the hands of hurried staff,
the nurse we should have harried there -
removed her from those clutches, dare
to bring her home with us, there, then.
We look back, incredulity,
but no one questioned medics then;
though shocked, but trained in courtesy,
we left, her at their mercy, there.
A curse which I have borne since then.
A secret which I’ve lived since then.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Parliament Literary Journal. He has, like so many, been a nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/