Day 3: The Golden Years.

I wrote this poem as a response to a friend’s mother in law who is in a care home. Thinking of all the residents…and also their carers, working so hard to keep everyone safe.

The Golden Years.

They tell me I’m now in my ‘Golden Years’

But for the first time ever I’m close to tears.

At night my teeth live in a glass by the bed,

My skin doesn’t fit and my legs are like lead.

My tights are all saggy and my waist’s almost gone,

My mind goes on wanders and I forget what I’ve done.

My hair has turned silver and I walk with a stick,

My bottom is saggy and I’m no longer quick.

People talk to me slowly, in a voice that’s too loud

As if I’m non compos mentis or my head’s in a cloud!

They assume I’ll like Bingo and singing along

To a terrible tune or an old fashioned song.

The meals that they give me are soggy and bland

And to cut up the meat a nurse gives me a hand.

I’m wheeled in to watch telly or to sit in a ring

For an hour in the garden to sample the Spring.

All my needs are taken care of or that’s what they think-

A warm bed, rich tea biscuits and sweet tea to drink…

In my years I have travelled and seen many sights

A war, occupation, had lows and some highs.

But right now with this virus and its threat to my life

I’m kept from what’s dear to me-my son and his wife.

Isolation is just like a prison sentence to me…

All I want for my ‘Golden Years’ is my dear family.

Karen Robinson. 26th March ‘20.