Nursery*

All I have are dark memories.

 

An old, red-sandstone house,

narrow pathway

from front gate

to front door

and

mum

Not allowed inside

the nursery.

 

Then, thirty years later,

Mum is inside.

I am visiting her

And the bell is rung.

 

Big, brass monstrosity

Clanged,

Not by Nurse Ratched,

But,

Someone aspiring to that role.

 

And

the look of sadness in mum’s eyes,

As, one by one other relatives

Get-up and leave

and, eventually I am the last one

And mum,

Now anxious that I should go,

For fear

Of my getting in the way of the nurses

And this,

Somehow

Having repercussions on her care.

 

*Or, why I hate visiting times.