Sunday, 11 September 2011


This poem was sent to me by Gill Shutt  whose  father-in-law suffered from Alzheimers

 By Gill Shutt

You look at me and my eyes are wet,
Your mind in a time before we met
And yet
I’ve known you for years. 
You ask my name and when I tell
I ask you if you’re feeling well.
In hell,
Your face shows your fears.

I stand to leave you say ‘hello’,
You’re back with me, your face aglow.
Don’t go.
My face streaked with tears.

And when I’m gone I’m soon forgot.
You feel that you’ve been left to rot.
Your lot
To wait as end nears.

Nurses bustle round your bed,
Talk as though you’re almost dead.
Your head
Winds down its gears.

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