Cold Harbours For Refugees

Cherry

By mark_yelland-brown

Tue, 26 Sep 2023
  • 181 reads
4 comments
 

This is no small thing,

To hold the shaking cup, while others pour the tea;

And the eyes are everywhere, except on yours.

And there is no point wishing you were somewhere else,

You were always for this time, always the waiting to be touched,

By rough, cold hands;

And such minds as these could easily make you bleed.

There is no bruising in this territory,

But mostly in the heart, that feels distressed,

“Why me?”

 

There is no precedent for this disease,

Everyone is kind;

At such times that do not impinge on individual liberty.

You’re desperate for the concerned look;

You follow their progress as they disturb the peace.

Everything is flung rudely,

And you are turned over;

But abuse is a strong word,

And their time is precious;

And you are an element,

A sack of things to do;

That will be crossed off, eventually.

 

Time is the cold enemy,

It presses you firm into high-back ancient chairs,

It provides dull company;

It murmurs of the somewhere better than this,

And lets you out, like a skein,

At painfully slow degrees.

 

Consciousness is a dreary process of contact interrupted,

And your gaze is drawn to those other grey-lined faces,

Barely visible behind the grotesque masks that drugs induce,

But where is the relief?

 

It’s not where nights draw in,

Or in the malted drinks, luke-warm and never quite sweet enough;

But in the visits,

From that other world, of bright colours and warmth,

Where Hell is just a noun of verbal abuse,

And not a urines soaked reality.

Where faces are remembered for true, normal kindness,

And not costed for the expected paybacks.

It’s in family, where you are known,

And acceptance is taken for granted,

“You don’t have to bring me anything,

It’s just so good to see you!”

 

The criminality of age;

Such abuses would have a saner society crying out for retribution,

Or absolution.

There are a million faces tilting, to a million cracked china teacups,

A million dreaded twilights, in a million dusty rooms,

And the perfect aloneness of `Homes`;

Cold Harbours for refugees.

Certificate U
Poem
Drama

Comments

Submitted by celticman on

age is not a crime, not yet. But it seems like it as you show 

 

Submitted by Jane Hyphen on

The grotesque masks that drugs induce. A sack of things to do.

How depressingly moving this is. It feels as if the government would like us all to die quietly shortly after retirement.

 

Submitted by Di_Hard on

I had never thought of old age as being a place, despite knowing that line about "the past is a foreign country". How you describe it, as if people are washed up on the shores of a world where too much has changed to understand, as if your own language has too many new words to be your language anymore, your history is too far in the past to be the history of those around you.

"And you are turned over;

But abuse is a strong word,

And their time is precious;

And you are an element,

A sack of things to do;

That will be crossed off, eventually."

really thought provoking and moving

 

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

I was surprised to read this. 'Homes' obviously vary, and so much depends on the love and care attitude of management that leads the other staff. My mother-in-law is 104 and the Home she is in is very happily and caringly run, and well-known in the town, so quite transparent.

They have had the benefit of dedicated and hard-working activities organisers, who have known the resdients so well, and been involved individually. My father-in-law had a vision of drugged elderly people in a home, but when he had to be in one due to advanced Vascular Dementia, that too, was very caring. Over-drugging seemed a thing of the past, and seeing the difficulties with one or two confused elderly people, I could understand that sedation might be necessary, for their own good too.

During lockdown, the staff at mother-in-law's home managed amazingly where they had previously relied on the help of caring relatives. She had never seemed to invite hugs when younger, but as she had got more peace in her last years, and lost much hearing and sight, she seemed to appreciate hugging, and the staff could do that, even when we were allowed in but not allowed to hug, at one time.

It's not an easy job, and does need committment, and some elderly people are quite difficult and angry. Those that do it well, need our respect and prayers! Rhiannon