Goldfish

It's quiet - just her muttering and mumbling
all day long, and outside, a double-muffled
melange of frosted voices scurrying past.

The numbness she has, the gnawing, damp,
weathering of sensation, has her fidgeting
between naps, then turning her blurred eyes
to question the incomprehensible street,
or fiercely cross-examine his empty chair.

The hollowness, the wandering ache, amongst
all the dustless clutter of valuable things
in the assembly-kit that made their latest home,
is her, dispossessed of how she used to be.

For she remembers chirpy whistling days
with windows that breathed, seasons strolling
in for a chat, grubby knees at open doors,
and laughter scampering from room to room.

Now nothing stirs, nothing except time
creeping round, outdating the shiny things,
like her goldfish stalking quietus round the bowl.

.

 

Reviews

[Beccy]

A bit of a shiver down the spine as I read this. It does come to such a pass doesn't it; or at least, it can; and even the memory of laughter scampering from room to room, cannot dull the ache.

Such a very good poem; and the last verse in particular really hits home.

Beccy.

[Gerald Parker]

Another review of which I didn't receive notification. A mixture of my mother and the old lady next door. Thanks for commenting, Beccy.