All I have are dark memories.


An old, red-sandstone house,

narrow pathway

from front gate

to front door



Not allowed inside

the nursery.


Then, thirty years later,

Mum is inside.

I am visiting her

And the bell is rung.


Big, brass monstrosity


Not by Nurse Ratched,


Someone aspiring to that role.



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,


Having repercussions on her care.


*Or, why I hate visiting times.


Published by rodkersh1948

Trying to understand the world, one emotion at a time.

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