A Puzzle

She used to switch on the sun

Making it shine especially for us.

Now the chalice of P.G Tips

Her spindle finger caress

Too weak to bring to lips.

Once a crossword fiend,

Now every clue begins,

A blank.

She sits upon her

Fire proof throne,

In the communal area

Yet all alone.

She waits for God or Godot ,

While round about her

Aproned ladies fuss,

and feed their flock

as she had once done.

I leave her looking

Straight ahead

And make it

To the door

Before I cry.

Thankfully,

She’s far too

busy waiting,

to hear my

whispered,

superfluous,

long,

goodbye.

© Bernard Pearson

2000