The old lady who lives
in the house on the seafront
stands with rusty shears
trimming her hedge of purple Hebe.
elbows bent, she clips salty air
hoping for visits from passers-by.
A sprawling house
collapsing from years of disrepair,
her world exists in a solitary room.
Loneliness seeps from
faded rose patterned wallpaper.
Curtains sag, stale with senility.
A tired burgundy carpet
threads the stairs
to a forgotten world.
Framed photographs
stare from the mantelpiece,
their faces buried in her memory.
Her eyes look to the sea,
absorbed by the soothing swish of the waves.
Her life, held in the ripples
of an ever changing tide
and the rusty shears by the hedge.
© Maire Morrissey-Cummins
Aging is the unknown country, and one that doesn't always offer us any shelter from hard times..from loneliness. Your poem touches on this beautifully, Maire.. XX
ReplyDeleteThanks Barbara, she is a lovely lady, I always stop to chat with her. xx
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