Maybe the Last Time by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Now that the house has settled down again
Roy and I have had conversations.
Yes, he’s demented
and doesn’t know my name,
but these are heart-talks
not mind-talks
and we are both very clear
on what we are saying
heart to heart.
I sit on the floor by his wheelchair,
his fingers stroke my hand,
we both know his days
are now counted in hours.
