Love and Family

Biscuits

I rang my daughter.
She was in another country,
Baking Carmelina biscuits.
As we chatted, she multi-tasked,
And spilled them on the floor.
I felt guilty.



30 October 2008

My daughter’s homeward plane takes her out of my sight.
I reflect on the doings of our shared fortnight.

She had come from her gracious home in Chianti
To rest in my modest Murrindindi shanty.

She’s fifty, a lovely and sensitive lady.
I’m eighty, obsessive and pr’aps a mite shady.

But, when we once again meet, settle down and talk,
It’s not at all (as one might have feared) cheese and chalk.

We chat, with deep interest and ardour, about
Politics, books, poetry, family and drought.

We cook and we garden, and on hills breast the breeze,
And share playful games about art, cattle and trees.

There are also big hugs that give perfect pleasure,
And gentle words that surpass every measure.

Then, at the airport, we part.





Quiz

When the daughter flew from Tulla on swift wings,
What of most consequence did she leave behind?
Could it be socks, her camera, some earrings?
Perhaps clean windows, planted herbs or soft words?
In truth, it was not any one of those things.
It was loving hearts.




Parenting

My child is sleeping nearby
In a temporary bed
Lovingly made up by me.

Such joy creating a nest
For a daughter - even when
She’s going on fifty-three.

Consolation

Loved ones fly off but

Also stay behind, being

So close in the mind.

For a Time, from Tuscany

They came, my daughter and
Her man, with gusto and  
With glee, to join us in  
Bucolic amity.

They conversed in jolly 
Family-style, stirring
Memories and mirth, as 
We supped right merrily.

They left busy laptops
To pitch in, farming-style, 
Lifting wood, hunting leaks,
Planting, clipping, gazing.    

They danced upon the hills,
Looked down on valley mist,
Up to southern stars, and 
Shared with us their wonder.  

It was a blissful time.


 

A Daughter’s Reassurance

                        

‘It was wonderful,’

I said, ‘living and  

Working beside you

These days at the farm.’

‘I know,’ she replied  

With that lovely smile,

‘It was good for me,

Too; I’ll be back soon.'

The Kindest Cut

Betimes the Cattleman’s shaggy,
His fair locks drearily daggy.
The reason is simple and clear:
The daughter’s arrival is near.

For she can comb and cut and snip
And make him as svelte as a whip.
For which he’s ever so grateful,
Barbers being a bit hateful

Because they fuss and they snick so
(Even when asked for a quick mow),
To convince their chair-bound bunny 
He’s got full value for money.




My Two Wives

City lady:
Stylish dresser,
Keenly coiffured;
Devoted to 
Ballet, concerts,
Live theatre
And thoughtful books.  

Country lady:
Striding the hill,
Garish parka, 
Tousled by wind;
And on her knees, 
Weeding, and rough
Cursing rabbits.



The Flower Lady

Absorbed in their beauty,
Enthralled by their perfume,
She glides among flowers
In both garden and home,
Inspecting and plucking,
Arranging in vases,
With fond and skilled fingers 
So they’re ever in view.

Bond

We were lovers once;

And decades later,

The fondness lingers.

My Sister

Small elderly lady,
A little bent perhaps
(Has trouble with her back),
Walking Yorkshire Molly
In a favourite park.
Two bags: peanuts for crows
And squirrels; the other,
Bread for ducks and pigeons.

Three gigantic green lads,
Stoning pigeons, laughing.
Outrage overcomes timid.
Actress, big voiced at need, 
Regal command: ‘Stop that!’
Lads seek to salvage poise, 
With mini-male pride sneers.
But she barks back - and scores. 

They slink off sheepishly.
She sinks on to a bench,
Legs shaking, heart pounding:
Disengaged fear, and age.
Molly licks her slack hand. 
Overhead, pigeons swirl,
Crows, squirrels assemble,
Now assured of their feast.







Bastille Day, 1959

It happened, oh, so long ago,
To gracious lady we all know,
Who then was something short of three.

Sunny lunch in Paris bistro:
The tot was given H20,
The parents chose a fine white wine.

Those pale colours have since conspired
To make some think that what transpired 
Was entirely accidental.

But others, of less trusting mood,
Envisaged questing sips pursued
Surreptitiously by rosy lips.

Whate’er the truth of that may be,
What followed was a comedy
On the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

Lunch done, the little family
Set off quite ordinarily,
Hand in hand, tiny one midway.

Then sudden she began to sing 
So loud as made the welkin ring,
And startled all the passers-by. 

And equal sudden, as she strode,
Her legs collapsed towards the road:
Only clasping hands maintained her. 

The populace all mostly smiled
At this inebriated child,
For such a merry sot was she.

At their modest pensioné
She retired, a young Salomé,
And in classic style ‘slept it off’.

So when it came to eventide,
She was alert and starry-eyed
As fireworks mirrored in the Seine. 

All this, as said, was long ago; 
And she confesses nought to know 
Of this tipsy infant caper. 

There’s only one more thing to say
About that distant Bastille Day:
Its recall, by two, is treasured. 

After the Concert

I hear her car stop;

I open the door.

She floats in, serene,

Smiling and sated.

There’s no need for talk:

The music was perfect.

Floral Exactitude

Throwing open the gate to her
Belovéd, bloom-brimming bower,
My lady announced with hauteur,  
‘I shall pluck only one flower,
And already,’ such a soft purr,   
‘Know precisely which I’ll prefer.’

 

For My Granddaughter, Starting Year Six

You have, I know,

Already discovered that

Learning is a wondrous

Journey. 

You will later,

I hope, discover with

Joy that the journey is 

Endless.

Rite of Passage

Nicknamed ‘Cornflakes’ (née Kornish),
She was all of five years old,
Youngest boarder in the school.

She’d heard, in scary whispers,
About Nellie Fitchett’s ghost
That dwelt up in the tower.

(‘Twas not known what Nellie did
But clearly it was dreadful,
For her ghost was proof of that.)

Then there chanced a fateful day
When Cornflakes was persuaded 
To endure a hallowed rite.

Her allotted task: to spend 
A night atop the tower
With poor Nellie Fitchett’s ghost. 

The time at last did come, so
She clenched her infant teeth and
Clambered up those fearsome stairs,

Blanket clutched, and pillow, stripped 
Off her dormitory bed,
With a torch to light her way.

Amid dusty attic trunks
(Tallied on the hour or so), 
The night passed slow and sleepless,

The darkness dread and pressing,
The feeble torchlight leaving
Most things in deepling shadow. 

But, happily, no shocking
Apparition swept out from
The gloom prior to the dawn.   

Creeping stealthy down the stairs
Back into her slumbered dorm,
Good fortune stayed with Cornflakes,

For Miss Pearson, quite close by,
Did not awake to scold when
She slipped softly into bed - 

And, well content, sank to sleep.






Seeing My Wife in Her Unknown Youth

I’m not a fan of the dance:   
Ballets bore; ballroom’s a chore. 
But just once saw a dance that
Gave me delight beyond words. 

A wedding: two agéd guests  
(Last clasped as dashing young things)
Well met on the dance floor and
Re-lived their past for a while.  

Their free-flowing movement, their
Verve and their polish and their    
Joyous understanding soon  
Cleared the floor, captured the room.

Amid the applause, I gazed
On my Lena, enraptured.    
Her grace, long adored, only 
Then did I see at full stretch. 

Two Distinct Canine Blessings

Viv loved grey Molly;

And nursed her right

To the end.

Now has green Ollie; 

He makes her laugh,

Feel younger.

Mother’s Hoard

A pensioner she, proud
And cunning and frugal
(Apart from scotch and fags).

As I flew from abroad
To visit, she tottered
Swift to the Post Office.
Keen to show her pass-book:
Those bland blue daring eyes.
She was lying, of course.

Ever, on my leaving,
She cashed out, stuffing it
Into a roomy purse
And trusty Shepherd’s Bush
Curtains, secure once more
With her money to hand.

Of Daughters

Lately I have two.

They entered my life

Along entirely

Different pathways.

And each was heaven-sent.

Of Witchery


My lady is a witch  
(White preferentially). 
All cats know it, and seek
Her out, though she rejects
Their stealthy overtures,
Professing fondness for
Certain canines only.

Many years ago, my
Dear dead mother (astute
In many things) warned me:
‘The woman is a witch!’
But there was a twinkle
In that maternal eye
That belied the warning.

And so I blundered on,
Abandoning, one by
One, those cautious wiles that
Had so long safe-guarded 
Me in the state of one.
Until the witch, at last,
Drove me into her arms,   
Forever.

Ritual In Tuscany

With my daughter:

We take tea in

The afternoon.

A steaming pot,

Two mugs and four

Biscuits on the

Tray between us.

I pour, and a

Biscuit proffer;

Then we settle

Down to talk.

Beloved Barber Cometh       

Never been cool:  
Barely do jeans,  
Detest wordy
T-shirts, dislike
Collar-deep hair. 

Yet now and then 
Let sparse grey locks 
Lengthen and flow  
On promise of    
Pleasure hirsute. 

Tuscan daughter
Icumen in;  
Scissors await;    
Make sure she has     
Summat to snip!  

25 March 2013

I can’t help it, I weep

Whenever I recall

My daughter’s whispered words:

‘If you ever need me,

Just call me, and I’ll come.’

(She lives, you understand,

Content in Tuscany.)

Of Social Limpets

Generally speaking, they are
Notoriously unpleasant,
Whether loud and public or,
As more usual, covert and sly.

They cling to any rock that
Smells of fame or wealth or power;
They yearn for reflected glory
And/or some kind of preferment.

But there is as well a sub-branch
Of the species, less remarked, less
Obnoxious, and intent solely 
On averting isolation.

My granddaughter and I are two of this breed.
At mass Jewish functions, her rock 
Is her mother; mine is my wife.
We cling to them, tight as can be.

But that is not always enough.
Both rocks are flighty, slippery 
When spying old friends, and inclined 
To leave us aquake in their wake.

But we take comfort from knowing
That if they manage to slip us,
At least we deserted limpets
Do have each other to cling to!







When the Children Visit from Afar

They fly in, gifting   
Us golden days of    
Warm hugs, light laughter
And cosy chatter.  

Then, as they must, they
Fly off to resume    
Full and fruitful lives 
(While depleting ours). 

Yet always, always,
They refresh our stock      
Of joy by saying    
Simply, ‘We’ll be back!’  

Hurrah!

2014 

At last, at last, 

After many a year,

All the Bevilacquas

(Both the lissom and sere) 

Have now crossed their heart and 

Promised soon to be here! 

A Long-ago Exchange with a
               Deeply Belovèd
2015 

‘I don’t know that I can trust you,’  
She said, my twelve-year-old daughter,  
On the phone in the home where I  
Was no longer living with her. 

Shocked, speechless, I burst into tears. 
It was, unintentionally,  
The most potent defence I could  
Have contrived: she melted at once. 



Of Nicholas and Fish
2015

Pre-crawling Nicholas, 
Gleefully rolling back   
And forth, from tummy to
Back and tummy again 
(Each time winning tender 
Applause for achievement),
Discerns the greater world  
Like a fish in a pool. 

But, oh, so more honeyed  
Is the world that he kens!  
Fish see uncaring lips,
Eyes of lapping cattle.
He sees lips endlessly 
Smiling, cooing, and eyes   
That look on him softly
With ineffable love. 

Then, to clear clinch the case:  
When he is otherwise 
Tended, fed and fondled,  
There’s a constant ripple
(A fish never will hear)  
Of murmurings that pour  
Unending love into  
His shell-dainty pink ears.   

To a Beloved Worrier

2016

        

Oh, dear lady, sad you fritter  

Good time, mourning the changeless past,  

Foreseeing bleak future unknowns  

When, in the now, you’re wrapped up tight 

In the love of those you cherish,

And deluged daily in joy. 

The Sad Tale of a Little Girl
     With a Casual Regard for Time
         And no Taste for Pink
2016 

Languid awakening, summer light 
Streams into her bedroom, beams on
The new blue dress hanging nearby. 
Sudden delight: ‘Oh, my birthday!’ 
Time for song (‘zip-a-dee-doo-dah’[1]), 
For bouncing blithe from bed, trilling   
Softly (‘zip-a-dee-ay’), slipping  
From nightie to knickers that dear
Mummy laid out - and so (‘oh, what
A beautiful day’) into the    
Gorgeous blue dress, to flounce, preen and
Pirouette before the mirror.

Then, still wrapped sweetly in song, it’s    
Off to join Mummy and Daddy and  
Get going this super-doop day! 
Little slippered feet dance (‘plenty 
Of sunshine going my way’) down       
The Long Hall to the Big Bedroom.   
The soft singing abruptly ends.   
It’s dark, Daddy’s snoring, Mummy’s 
Asleep - until gentle fingers  
Tug her awake, and all joy is
Quick crushed by a whispered rebuke:  
‘Go back to bed; it’s too early!’  


[1] ‘Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!‘My oh my, what a wonderful day,‘Plenty of sunshine heading my way …’



A Joyous Time 
2016

In the flush of a wondrous Spring,  
My daughter and her dear man came 
And filled our days with hugs and talk 
And laughter and fine Roman fare,  
And all manner of good works. 

When they went they said, ‘We’ll be back!’   
That left us moderately happy. 

Daughter

2016 

I come late to table,

She springs up and sprinkles

Parmesan on my soup,

Flashing that smile at me:

A small act of love that

Turns my heart over.

A Certain Grandmother at Play
2017 

Giggling, Nicholas (two years plus)  
Stands sturdy while Alexander  
(Eight months) gazes down from fond arms,   
Soft smiling as if in the know.   

Lala, on all fours, creeps towards  
The false-cowering Nicholas
With grimace and menace – and then 
Springs like a tigress, smothers in hugs. 

She replays the game, and others,  
Until her eighty years force her  
To rise (like Venus from the waves)   
And behave like a standard grandma!

The Curl

2017

Spiralling

Wondrously,

Lengthily,

From Nikky’s

Darling crown,

It raptured

His mother,

Along with

One other.

Sad to say,

However,

His pate fell

Into the

Hands of a 

Butchering 

Barber who

Carelessly

Snipped this pearl

Of a curl!

My Lady and Dance
2017 

At theatre, ever ravished by ballet;  
At ballroom, her flair won constant applause.    
At eighty, walks tall like a dancer and 
Shimmies when ol’ Satchmo’s1  trumpet resounds!  


1.Explanation for non-oldies: ‘Satchmo’ (short for ‘Satchel-mouth’) is the nickname of Louis Armstrong, a much-loved African-American musician and singer of the mid-20th century. 

It’s Happened!

2018 

At last, at last,

After many a year,

All the Bevilacquas

(Both the lissom and sere)

Are really, clearly and

Incontrovertibly here! 

The Lion of Le Ripe 
2018

Of Homeric line is sweet young Argo, 
Fair Le Ripe’s newest, bravest hero. 

As now told, ’twas in the forest shadow 
He fought, with prodigious grit and gusto,  
A rampant boar a little while ago  
To save his ladies from said savage foe. 

He endured his wounds like a true hero
(the doctor later brought him further woe),
And left it up to others, as you’d know,    
To tell the world the tale of bold Argo.





A Mantra Recycled
 2018

‘I love you all the time and all the same’: 
Nightly, a lifetime ago, I whispered  
These words to my little daughter aiming   
To soothe worries lingering from the day.    

Now, I find myself once more whispering  
Them to another dearly belovèd
In slighter hope of soothing the darker  
Worries of a deeply troubled old mind.

The Sadness in the Recent,

       Bounteous Spring

2019 

That she (though still in

Some ways of this world)

Could no longer waft

Through her garden, and

Glory again in

The beauty she had

Devised over years

Of patient pleasure.

Songs for Lena: Early Mournings

2019

My Lady Now

She cannot talk,

She cannot walk,

She cannot stand.

A machine and

Two nurses put

Her in and out

Of bed and on

To the toilet.

But she can hug,

Smile thinly, smother

With small kisses,

And whisper a

Wild word of love.

Often, too, she

Knows you – though she

Cannot say your name.

Delight

 (17 October 2019)

It is never certain

That she will know me at

First sight when I visit.

Even if she does, her

Response is limited

To sudden gleaming eyes,

Fluttering hands, a thin

Smile on her lips but

Almost never a word.

This time, when I walked in,

She was sitting in her

Wheelchair at the far end

Of the common room.

She noticed me at once,

Smiled, almost beaming,

And threw her arms wide.

As we embraced, I heard

A whispered, ‘I love you’!

  

Those Lovely Eyes

Dark and shining  and

Once so revealing

Of all shades between

Rapture and sorrow,

But now often blank.

When then she looks on

Me, it may be she

Wonders who I am;

But clearly I am

Of no interest.

Company

Nowadays, there is peace

And some comfort to be

Had just watching her sleep

Or simply holding her

Hand as she sits, stony

Staring, in her wheelchair.

 Rememberings

Her hair on the pillow,

Her soft inviting voice,

The welcome in her eyes,

And, of course, her body. 

Songs for Lena: II

Today, She Broke My Heart 

She was in her wheelchair;

We were holding hands, her

Lovely eyes intently

On me, when she sudden

Whispered (loudly for her)

Three words that for once

Made a complete sentence. 

They were: ‘Take me home!’  

I stammered some inane

Reply, and panic-sprang

To bring hot chocolate

And a piece of cake to

Cover my confusion.

Thankfully, she did not  

Repeat the command, and    

Still looked kindly on me.   

For Their Pleasure, not Mine!

In the common room, when I visit,

My lady’s careful grooming (make-up, 

Lipstick, tended hair) sets her apart. 

At first I imagined that this might 

Acknowledge my frequent attendance;

But a dainty Nepalese carer 

Pricked that conceit with charming candour.

My lady is pampered simply because

She is ‘so beautiful, and so sweet’.   

The Balance of Need

Long need for the other, intense,

Equivalent, joined with respect 

For reticence, independence. 

The balance shifted only when

The mist entered her stoic mind. 

While still with speech, she sent three stark, 

Undiscussable signals amid 

Unprecedented floods of tears.  

There was, first, the utter agony 

In her, ‘I don’t know what I am,

Or who I am’; and later the 

Fears of a darkening future:     

‘What’s going to happen with me?’ 

Then six months before she went to

Regis, the heart-rending doubt of: 

‘Would you look after me, Ross?’ 

This during the long months of her 

Deepening need for bodily care,

Involving supported walking, 

Spoon-fed meals and dealing with the  

Mortifying issue of incontinence.

These were also months when mountain- 

Damaged knees were withheld from repair  

In a once-seeming sacrifice. 

Regis has reversed that balance. 

She may know me when I visit,  

As I must, but I slip swiftly  

Out of mind when I slip from sight.

She, instead, remains a constant, 

Needed presence in my head – so,

Where once I put off the surgeon’s knife 

For her, I do so now for me!  

Magic Moment

After unavoidable months

Apart, two loving sisters meet 

Once more in East Malvern Regis,

One in sad expectation of 

Being regarded a stranger. 

But no! The other, wheelchair-bound, 

Gaze-intent a second or two,    

Erupts in joy, clapping, smiling,    

Arms out-flung in wordless greeting! 

         

The Regis Mantra

It evolved at home from odd mornings

When I woke to find my wife looking   

On my face with hard, inquiring eyes:    

‘I’m Ross, I’m your husband, and I love you.’ 

Always got me at least a cuddle then.

It’s needed more often at Regis,

But it doesn’t work as well there.

Songs for Lena: III

Does She Know?

There is no dignity

In the ‘standing machine’: 

She is strung up like a 

Carcase in an abattoir  

When wheeled to the toilet. 

Does this once-proud lady 

Have any sense of that? 

I find it hard to think 

She has none; but she does  

Not or cannot tell me. 

Of Anger

There is so much anger

Pent up in Coppin Ward,

Some of it quite scary.

But, to the wonder of 

Her carers, not a scrap 

Of it is in my lady. 

   

Of Talking

Today she asked me,

Out of the blue and 

Almost as clear as

A whispering bell:  

‘How are you feeling?’ 

Then, when I answered,  

She sparkled as though 

Pleased with herself for

Getting the words out.  

The Playmates

Watching them together   

Is a perfect pleasure: 

Aziza does the talking, 

Lena does the smiling,  

And both do the hugging! 

      

Of Ambiguity

In the quiet and shadowed 

Sunlight of the rose-garden,

Caressed by gentle breezes,

She slumbers in her wheelchair.  

I gaze on her dear, dear face, 

The rise and fall of her breasts;  

And drift off to times of joy  

Before this hateful half-life.   

Then sharply, urgently, I 

Want her dead and out of it!   

And once again wear the guilt - 

While still I want her here.

Songs for Lena: IV

2020

Where My Lady Lives Now

Coppin ward is a benign prison.

Its exits are disguised as bookshelves,

Sometimes, understood for what they are,

They are banged, shaken, shouted at by

Agitated would-be escapees

(She, of course, is never one of these).

Would-be entrants, informed by outside

Screens, must wait until the coast is clear.

Happy Correction

‘

Out of sight, out of mind,’ I’ve thought,

Each time departing Coppin ward.

But today, a lovely carer

(Dark eyes agleam with pleasure at

Conferring certain joy) told me

She had heard my lady cry out

In the morning: ‘Ross, where are you?’

I treasure lurking in her head like that!

There is no Pattern

On one day, she was talkative:

Lots of almost-conversations

(Child-like level, barely heard words,

Half-formed sentences) pursued with

Delicious enthusiasm.

Next day, she could not speak (apart

From yes/noes and one, ‘I love you’)

But, as if compensating, was

Wonderfully affectionate

And hungrily eager to touch.

She Knows?

She is trapped in a body that

No longer belongs to her, that

No longer bends to her will; and

The hell of it is (as I now

Almost believe) that she knows that.

Where else can her whisper to me,

‘Let’s run away,’ come from?

The Future?

On the fifth day of the New Year,

She was not hostile but, for once,

Did not seem at any stage to

Know who I was; nor smile - even

When I brought her hot chocolate.

I was told by her carers that,

Uncharacteristically,

She’d been aggressive that morning.

 Songs for Lena: V

2020

    You Never Know Your Luck …

When I come into the common room,  

She’s always seated in her wheelchair   

(Usually with a mobile table   

Over her lap to stop her trying     

To stand) either playing with plastic   

Dishes, looking at a large book of

Photos or simply staring ahead.    

What then happens is pretty settled. 

My hand goes tender to her shoulder, 

I kiss her cheek, murmur my mantra 

Close to her ear, and move into her  

Line of sight, where those wondrous eyes gaze 

Coolly on me for a varying time   

Before my reward of a small smile,

A clutch of my proffered hand, a light   

Kiss or two, and perhaps a soft word.

But then, twice, her response has startled

And delighted with its speed and its

Exuberance: sparkling eyes, flashing  

Smile, arms flung wide, a hard hug, a long  

Warm kiss – even, once, a lover’s pet! 

This, as a chance, inevitably    

Makes each and every visit a  

Loving lottery, a golden gamble. 

      Always, the Mother

An adored carer, trying to   

Feed my lady, was startled at  

Being asked: ‘Have you had breakfast?’ 

(In Coppin ward, ‘residents’ don’t  

Ask such altruistic questions!)   

Informed that toast had been had, she   

Consented to eating her own. 

      

In Her Room

A single slim vase of flowers,  

Tall, alone, and taking her eye  

As she sits calm in the wheelchair. 

Aziza-plucked, they come from the   

Garden at Huntingtower that 

She’s loved and tended for so long.   

Pinching as Love

It’s difficult to initiate  

A fond kiss or hug from a wheelchair,  

Even if you can talk properly.  

My ever-affectionate lady  

Has cleverly taken to pinching 

As a means of saying, ‘I love you’, 

To people she likes – who are many.   

She targets arms/breasts, her strong fingers  

A problem; and she appears to be 

Coppin ward’s only active pincher.    

     Occasional Diary Detail

ODD-1: Today, wonderfully talkative:

Mostly to me, low voice, indistinct. 

Hugely hungry: four choc-chip cookies 

(Stole mine!); three cups of hot chocolate.

Bored with singalong: wheeled out early.

ODD-2: Today, totally speechless, but v. 

Affectionate: twinkling eyes, lots of  

Smiles, many pinches - & real humour:   

Gave ‘the finger’ to decline cup-cake!

Songs for Lena:  VI 

2020   

A Glimpse of Her Life Now

Every once in a while      

My lady falls out of bed.

Anticipating this, her    

Bed is set close to the floor,  

Alarm-linked crash-mat beside.  

Regis properly reports  

Falls: today rang to do so.

She had crawled over the floor:

Luckily, without bruising.

I value, but dread, these calls.  

Always, they raise for me a    

Gut-lurching image of my  

Proud lady, deep in misery,

Heaving her unresponsive

Body across that hard floor.  

But this time at least it seemed

Likely my fear was baseless,    

As Aziza (long-loving

Companion and first on the

Scene) happily assured me.  

For my lady, flat on her  

Back, crossed legs comfortably  

Resting on a low shelf, was

Watching TV; and gave her

A calm, smiling warm welcome.  

And she remained good humoured,  

Charming the carers who came

With their helpful machines – one  

To lift her off the floor, one  

To put her in the wheelchair.  

The Country Lady

It was a long-standing custom:  

As we drove past the highway sign,  

A loud chant of ‘Murrindindi’!  

Followed by gales of laughter.  

Always happy to return to  

Our haven above the Goulburn.  

Once there, my posh Toorak lady  

Would don boots, garish parka, bright

Beanie and (with an old ice-axe  

Of mine as a walking-stick)  

Climb our three peaks, often alone,  

Breasting high winds with huge gusto!

Over-fond of the cattle (stayed  

Away from the farm at sale-time),  

She hated rabbits as vegie

Patch marauders, delighted in

Kangaroos, wombats, echidnas.    

Adored storm clouds, sunsets, tall trees.  

In between there were the concerts,

The plays, the book clubs, the lunches  

And the international jaunts.  

But she was ever eager to  

Get back to the farm and its peace.  

Her sleep there was always untroubled.  

Her Carers

Almost all those in Coppin ward  

Are young, female, here on visas;

And most of them come from Nepal.  

Each day they dress her anew, make

Her up (without her advice) as

She would wish, add necklace, earrings

Often, and fix her hair, sometimes  

With braids or flamboyant flowers.  

As an add-on to central tasks,  

This reveals a kindliness and

Care that I find deeply moving.  

    

The Sister Still Known

     

Once more, a little miracle!  

Rita (and this time Norman as well)  

Greeted with evident knowledge:  

Much speechless smiling and hugging.    

 Occasional Diary Detail

ODD-3:  Today, using coloured pens/paper; v.v. focussed - for 12 mins unaware of me sitting beside her, until I spoke. Trying to write, not paint, it seems.

ODD-4:  Today, completely speechless, v. sleepy; but extremely affectionate; repeatedly smothering with kisses (one or two bites), some pinches.

ODD-5: Today, her only comprehensible words: ‘Good on you! When I brought a glass of water.

ODD-6: Today, Sonya did her make-up, Yasmin did her hair, and Paul her bright scarf topknot.

ODD-7: Today, in the rose garden, one loving pinch (on the wrist) was seriously painful! 

Songs for Lena: VII

The Games Some People Now Play  

In Coppin ward’s main common room:    

TV screen, semi-circle of      

Highbacked, padded armchairs, always 

Some ‘residents’ watching, dozing,

Others in rooms or wandering.  

‘Life-style’ pink-shirted staffers lead   

Games, singalongs, minimal dancing. 

Most popular: type of mini-golf   

And ‘balloon-swatting’ with poles of  

Foam-rubber, providing much glee. 

My lady cannot participate     

But has one game she plays alone

From her wheelchair, on a table-top.   

It involves plastic toy dishes

And drinking deep from empty cups.   

In the Regis Self-service Café

Awaiting or ignoring  

Her hot chocolate and cake,  

My lady now tends to spend 

Many minutes, still, intent,

Looking like she is reading

A half-folded newspaper.   

Most of the time is spent on   

The one page, before corners

Of other pages are turned 

And the paper’s cast aside.

Printed words, not pictures, are 

Clearly her prime interest.   

She’s never been able to 

Tell me what she is seeing.     

   

Perilous Pinching

Possessed of boundless affection

And uncommonly strong fingers,

My lady has turned into an 

Innocent source of unease.  

Debarred by her condition from  

All standard expressions of love,

She has settled on the pinch as  

An accessible replacement. 

The rub is that she has no sense 

Of her strength and seems to act on 

The principle of the greater  

The love, the harder the pinch! 

So, sadly, my gentle lady     

Now arouses feelings not far

From fear among denizens of  

Coppin ward’s cloistered corridors.

  

  The Rose Garden Routine

Mostly we have it to ourselves.

Sun-filled, peaceful, shielded by tall

Buildings that let soft breezes through.   

We sit in the shade on warm days,  

Just looking, holding hands until   

Her eyes droop and she sleeps for a  

Little, as I watch over her.    

Softly waking, she willingly  

Consents to being wheeled off in   

Search of hot chocolate and cake. 

Nowadays

Looking on her 

At quiet times,

I find myself 

Weeping a lot  

More than before. 

But at least I’ve 

Become rather   

More proficient

At keeping the 

Tears inside.

Songs for Lena: VIII

    Another Magic Moment

Though speechless, my lady’s 

Quick thin smile and seeking 

Fingers (for a love-pinch)    

Said it all: at long last,   

She knew she was looking  

On her cherished daughter! 

     

  

      At a Regis ‘Happy Hour’

The pianist, young and plainly  

Accomplished, began by charming  

All with gentle Celtic love lilts.   

Then, to show off his talent, he    

Switched to pompous Beethoven and 

Mozart - destroying my lady’s

Pleasure and chasing us away. 

           

One Way or Another, She Tells You

She was entirely without  

Speech that day: we were sitting   

In silence, holding hands and   

Looking on each other – then,  

Her face quite expressionless,  

She gave me a long, slow wink!   

What could I do but hug her  

Best I could (and weep inside)?

             

Mad Wednesday

(18 March 2020)

Started with saddest personal news:

The Commonwealth government had

Decided that I would not be 

Permitted to hold my lady’s  

Hand for at least the next fortnight   

Jarred from my rut, I hobbled out

To look on an eery world of     

Denuded supermarkets and  

Closed butcher shops that furtively    

Served meat from their own backdoor.    

True, on the street and in the stores 

There were still smiles and cheery talk;    

And in her bower (poodle curled    

Nearby as always) my barber    

Still snipped and charmed with friendly chat. 

But gave me no comfort with all     

Those greater certainties crumbling,   

My lady’s time so scant, and the  

Ache to hold her hand throbbing so.   

The one blessing (I believed) was 

That she would not share the ache.   

        

 Sad Tuesday

(31 March 2020)

Unhappily, the right 

Decision is announced:     

The Regis ban is to   

Stay indefinitely.  

Coppin guards my lady 

Well by fending me off.   

If only it didn’t hurt so!    

        

Songs for Lena: IX

(During the Regis lockdown)

       2020       

Of Fear 

I must confess to a nagging  

Fear in these COVID-19 times.   

My lady has Altzheimers, a   

Terminal disease with seven  

Defined stages: for the last six  

Months she has been at stage seven,   

Unable to talk, walk or stand.    

An indefinite ban on visits  

Protects her from the world and me.  

She could die before that ends.   

My fear is not so much that she  

Will die: I’m prepared for that, and  

May even find some comfort then.   

Rather, I’ve an overwhelming  

Need to hold her hand while it’s warm   

(When she can maybe hear what I   

Still have to say); and I dread that   

I may never have the chance. 

Good News

Mimi rang from Coppin ward    

To report that my lady had  

Once again fallen trying to  

Get out of bed on her own. 

But once again the ‘crashmat’   

Sounded the alarm, help  

Soon arrived; and I was told she   

Was both uninjured and cheerful.

I was guardedly comforted. 

   

        Love was Ever on Her Mind

When, in her illness, she could still read and  

Haltingly pronounce the words she saw, she 

Found constant delight in a slim picture  

Book for children in which Little Nutbrown   

Hare and Big Nutbrown Hare vie to describe  

Precisely how much they love the other.   

Through her life, love was more problematic. 

Her younger years (though softened by a loving 

Sister, aunt and male cousin) were profoundly 

Scarred by ambiguous parental love,  

Spiteful talk and betrayal; in later    

Years, too, betrayal figured large before  

Her saddest time, when intense maternal  

Love was returned in meanest measure.  

Though that’s not quite the end of the tale ...  

The Heart of the Matter

For twelve years, both haunted by unhappy pasts,    

We dithered, dancing round each other, doubt  

Submerging while we locked, but too often    

At a distance glancing sideways (there were others), 

Though even then we found ourselves reaching  

Out in subtle ways until we clasped again.  

At last, desperate, we threw the dice, married,  

And then came to understand that, this time,  

Commitment meant enduringly besotted!   

So, through golden years before the mist descended,  

We spoke incessantly of love, wrote small notes   

Avowing it, and marvelled at our luck.    

Songs for Lena: X

2020

  

Wednesday’s Delight

      

Six weeks, no sight or sound of her  

(Phone and skype of no use to us).   

Then, out of the blue, the Regis

Email pings inside my pocket,   

Inviting me to book a mere    

Hour with my lady – oh, the joy! 

Friday’s Mayday

I entered her room for  

The first time in six weeks.  

She was sitting in a 

Wheelchair, leaning on a  

Mobile table, her face    

Held hidden in her hands.

She looked up when I spoke,   

Reciting our mantra   

(‘I’m Ross. I’m your husband,

And I love you’); but her 

Eyes were stony, as though    

She had heard not a word.     

For a while, as I talked,

She just stared into space, 

Then looked down, set her arms   

Slowly on the table,  

Drooped her head over them, 

And became still as a rock.

For the better part of  

An hour she remained   

Uncannily inert    

While I puppy-dogg’d about, 

Prattling, touching, striving  

To keep despair at bay.  

But, at last, it happened.!  

I kissed her cheek one more    

Countless time: she turned her  

Head, looked me in the eye,  

Then kissed me on the lips 

And smiled the thinnest smile!    

Later too, responding  

To some tender words, she    

Even broke through the wall 

Of silence round her with    

A whispered, ‘I love you,’

Looking up from her bed. 

Came the hardest part: the

Allotted hour was spent. 

Wordlessly, she clutched at  

Me with both hands, her eyes 

So bleak - I still feel that 

Moment in my bones. 

Songs for Lena: XI

2020

 

Of Hidden Joy

For nine weeks, Regis rules keep my

Lady from her cherished carer.

But astute Aziza spies a

Chance, delivers clothes to Regis,

Darts upstairs to Coppin ward and

Finds the lady in her wheelchair.

Then, as has long been her way, she

Dances for her ailing ‘princess’.

Throughout the dance, the lady’s eyes

Are blank, the face is set in stone.

And yet her dainty hands softly

Clap in a pattern from the past;

And when the dancer at last asks,

‘Do you remember me?’ the

Princess, still without expression,

Promptly, firmly whispers, ‘Yes!’

When Words are Precious Jewels

Now mostly mute, her voice

A whisper, the tally

(In my hearing) of her

Clearly uttered words is

Minute: a few ‘yes’/‘no’,

Fewer still ‘I love you’,

And one ‘You’re wonderful’.

But today, asked if she

Needed the toilet, she

Avoided yes or no,

Head-shake or nod, silent

Stony stare – and instead

Whispered the startlingly

Uncertain, ‘I’m not sure!’.

Of Innocent Thieves

Coppin ward residents

Fall into three distinct

Ambulatory groups:

Those who can walk freely,

Those who can walk only

With a frame, and those who

Cannot take a single step

(which includes my lady).

Most of those who freely

Walk are known as the

‘Wanderers’ because they

Spend the greater part of

Their waking hours shuffling,

At snail’s pace, along the

Ward’s corridors and its

Outdoor garden pathway.

Mostly, wanderers do

No more than endlessly

Patrol these public spaces,

But sometimes a laxly

Open door entices

One to meander in,

Vaguely look about, and

Then meander out.

This explains why, sometimes,

Small colourful, glittery

Or tasty things disappear

From rooms; and also why

The cupboards and drawers

Of certain wanderers

Are sometimes discreetly

Ransacked by their carers.

The Day That Smile Came Back

(27 May 2020)

She was in her wheelchair when she 8

Turned her head to look at me, her

Face as usual quite impassive,

Her eyes without expression.

Then marvellously, after months of

Thin-lipped shadows, her lips curled

Into the full-blooded smile that

Has ravished me so many times!

Unlike those soon-extinguished

Shadows, too, it lingered and returned

Several times that day, when I

Fished for it with honeyed words.

Yet sadly, almost eerily,

Not once was it accompanied

By the lovely, sparkling eyes that

Had crowned it in the golden past.

Songs for Lena XII

2020

Outclassed

I’d popped chocolate sultanas

Between willing lips, plied her with

Water, shown some TV, stolen

Small kisses, chatted a little

About us and happiness, and

Watched her dear face while she dozed.

Throughout, she had been entirely

Mute and almost entirely without

Expression, though rewarding me

With an occasional thin smile,

A little hand-holding and two

Attempts to love-bite my fingers.

Towards the end of our time, she

Moved uncomfortably in her

Wheelchair: asked if she needed the

Toilet, she nodded; I pressed a

Button, and help soon came in the

Dainty shapes of Jaya and Yasmin.

Both Coppin ward veterans, they

Swooped, smothering my lady in

Fond words and gentle mirth as they

Lodged her in their machine – and won

The loveliest smile of the day!

Was I envious? Just a smidgen.

Almost Like Old Times

At Regis, I’ve lately tumbled

To the fact that a well-padded,

Manoeuvrable wheelchair and a

Button that sets her bed-height,

Allows me to hold my sleeping

Lady’s warm hand in comfort for

An hour and more – and even have

A doze or two of my own!

Of Aziza and her Princess

For the first time since

Regis came into our lives,

We bonded three were gathered

In the one room – my lady,

Wheelchaired and mute; Aziza,

Her devoted carer; and me.

Aziza then made the play.

She danced, as of yore, for her

Princess, plied her with grapes and

Fine chocolate, spoke gentle

Of love, and wreathed us all

In warm laughter and joy.

From behind stony eyes, my

Lady’s ecstasy gushed forth

In myriad small smiles, in hands

Clapping lightly, murmured streams

Of blurred words and pinching

Fingers bespeaking her love.

Twice more we met; Aziza

Worked her magic each time; and

Enchantment, thrice a week, seemed

The way of the future.

Then, abruptly, the second

Lockdown put the future on hold!

Songs for Lena XIII

2020

The Second Lockdown

Happily, we bonded three

Have contrived to meet, in a

Fashion, through most of this one.

Thrice weekly, then daily, a

Phone ‘face call’ assembles us.

If my mute lady is awake

She can hear as Aziza

Or I talk; she can watch as

Aziza dances (always

An orange on her head), shows

The flowers in our courtyard.

And she may perhaps smile a

Little, even whisper a word.

If she’s asleep when we call,

We don’t wake her, just look

On her dear face for a while.

Then steal quietly away,

Cherishing the next time.

Looking Back:

The Saddest Accolade

Eight weeks before Regis, in the

Bedroom we’d shared for thirty years,

I had asked my ailing lady,

‘Can I get anything for you?’

I could only hug her, through tears,

When she gravely replied: ‘Yes, Ross’.

Looking Back:

The Joy of the Dance

My lady loves dancing; I don’t.

But I loved watching her dance.

She loved me watching her dance.

She would dance for me when we were

Alone at the roomier farm.

And always at the finish

She would fling herself, panting,

Laughing, into my greedy arms.

Songs for Lena:  XIV

Of Sadness

(30 August 2020)

Today, after our latest

Phone ‘face-call’, I finally

Accepted that my lady

No longer knows who I am.

But she still knows Aziza,

And I need to see her, so

We’ll persist with the calls.

Of Cautious Joy

(6 October 2020)

After three barren months,

I have her warm hand in mine.

Long moments pass, her face like

Stone, while I forlornly drone

On about love and old times.

Then, beyond all hope, I feel

Sudden soft pressure on my

Hand, see a paper-thin smile.

I dare to believe, as her

Eyes close, that she still knows me!

Like Coming Home

Returning to Regis

To visit my lady

After long absence.

So many warm greetings,

So many smiling eyes

Above Covid-masked lips!

A hardened loner, I

Was startled by my sudden

Sense of community!

A Pretty Trick of the Trade

My lady’s Regis dentist

Reported that Coppin ward

Carer, Ben from Vietnam,

Had been ‘superbly helpful’.

He must, I reasoned, have made

Sure my lady’s certainly

Reluctant jaws stayed agape..

How? Not too forceful I hoped.

Caught up with Ben after months

Of puzzling, put the question.

His reply was simple and

Beautiful: ‘I tickled her!’

Songs for Lena XV

Crescendo!

   (25-28 November 2020)

Wednesday, Liberation   

Regis email drops like manna   

From a clear sky: bookless visits,  

Free movement, re-opened cafés,  

No fixed limits on duration,   

Or even visitor-numbers!  

Thursday, the rose garden

I trundle my lady into 

This sunlit place of dreaming to  

Find, against report, a lovely 

Ten survivors, red and gold and  

Cheery - if slightly bedraggled.

But for once, a sad caveat:  

I confess, I’m not quite sure that 

She is seeing them as I do,

Let alone sharing my delight!   

 Friday, princess enthroned  

We bonded three meet in Regis.   

Meaning Aziza can again  

Cuddle her princess, dance for her,  

Feed her chocolate and biscuits,  

And smother with sweet talk and love.    

Meaning, too, that I can again   

Loll lazy in my chair, holding my    

Lady’s soft hand and playing a     

Saucy, talkative audience.   

Saturday: the Sisters 

Rita and Norman come to Regis.

  

In my lady’s bedroom their fond    

Words flow like honey, but leave her  

Unmoved as she munches and sips  

In utter, stony-faced silence. 

Yet her gaze does not shift for a 

Second from her sister’s face.  

Time meanders by on leaden wings,  

Faint hopes fade faster, but her gaze  

Never shifts – until, the slightest   

Flicker of her lips the only  

Warning, her arms are suddenly

Flung open, and the sisters embrace! 

     

Hope in Hot Chocolate

2020

The Regis self-service caf,  

After five months, our old table  

By the window with the ghost gum.   

I fetch hot chocolate and she  

Drinks, with help, in utter silence   

As I weave my prattling web.  

It happened with her second cup,  

After wordless weeks, a startling  

Faintly whispered, ‘I love you!’  

Next day, same place, same drill: beyond  

Belief, a second whispered ‘I love you!’  

And this time with a little smile! 

Next day, same place, same drill: after

Two cups, with prompting, not a word!   

One more fond theory bites the dust.  

Songs for Lena XVI

 

A Glittering Gift

2021

New Year’s Eve, just a flash: 

A quick full-blooded smile  

And cheeky right-eye wink  

From my wordless lady 

While she looked into my eyes.   

For certain this time, too,  

’Twas no figment of my  

Avid mind – as dainty  

Yasmin bears me witness! 

The Third Lockdown: A Breakthrough!

On the first day of the New Year  

I bounced up to Regis reception   

Expecting the usual wave-through     

To my lady in Coppin ward.  

Instead, the portcullis crashed down,   

And from behind a daunting double   

Face-mask a dulcet voice told me    

She was again forbidden fruit.  

The tone was gentle, the regret 

Repeated, the dark eyes sincerely  

Sympathetic, but the words   

Remained unaltered by my pleas.   

So I shuffled off, dreading the   

Face-call-only, dreary-days ahead -     

Until my legalistic eye  

Lighted on some formal small-print.  

Lo! A loophole which (once fairly  

Argued, fairly judged) secures   

Me two precious visits in each  

Week this further lockdown lasts!   

 Songs for Lena XVII

2021

       

Why Didn’t I Check Before?    

It’s been hard to get one clear word,  

Let alone three, from my lady    

In the months since she entered Regis.  

Yet on a handful of occasions   

She has cut through my prattle with    

A thrilling, whispered, ‘I love you’.   

In between times I have waited   

Hopefully for more - until a  

Recent day when, for the first time in  

My life, entirely without forethought,  

The question came from nowhere.

‘Do you love me?’ I blurted out. 

Her response (a whispered ‘Yes’) came   

Back with wonderful, startling speed.   

I hugged and kissed her but did not  

Push my luck until the next day. 

Again I asked: ‘Do you love me?’ 

Again, like a flash, she whispered “Yes’. 

And so it has been since then.

Each day I ask the same question.   

And each day she responds promptly,  

And to my complete satisfaction.  

The Hard Truth

(25/1/21)

Not so long ago, she could nibble     

At a biscuit in her hand, hold  

A half-cup of hot chocolate,  

Fling out her arms in greeting.  

Not so now: it’s time to face it.  

Bit by bit, her body’s shutting down.  

She is dying before my eyes.  

Songs for Lena XVIII

   2021    

Reading the Signs

At last, expressionless, in total  

Silence, she slowly reaches out,     

Gently touches her sister’s hand.  

Nothing more than that: one brief touch.  

But she is saying, in the  

Only way she can at this time:    

‘Yes, now I remember who you  

Are, and I love you very much’. 

Spirit! 

Stony-eyed, strung high  

In the ‘standing machine’,  

Nightie up round her waist,   

She’s wheeled from the toilet.   

She looks straight at me.   

Her right-hand lifts an inch  

From the arm-rest and its   

Fingers wave gently - twice!   

For Content

Just sitting 

Beside her

Holding her

Hand is not 

The best; but 

It’s enough.

Songs for Lena IX

   2023 

Lena’s Affirmation

‘Tis almost four years since the day she  

(Now cocooned in Coppin Ward) 

Glanced north across the mighty Goulburn river -   

And shouted in delighted wonder as a  

Massive tidal wave of dark storm clouds poured 

Soundlessly over blue horizon hills!  

 

Then, as if on cue, clamouring magpies  

Hurtled up from eagle-threatened nests nearby; 

Darting blue wrens discovered ants below her window;  

While the rising sun calmly glistened dewy fields,  

Fondled southern summits she had solo-climbed, 

And gilded drifting clouds that never ceased to please. 

It was to be her last day at the farm, 

Though we did not know it then. 

Sometime before it ended, 

She was overheard to murmur 

In pensive contemplation,

‘Oh, I do so love this place.'

 

My Sister and Tears

2023

I had no tears,

Not a drop,

For my little sister 

When she died at ninety-two.

Yet I had for so long loved her,

Cloaked her in brotherly care,

Whenever I was able.

Until a few short years from the end.

Those years told so much.

Left me with sadness for my sister,

But no grief, no tears.

Though her mother can still tap both.

     Of Skin to Skin

2023

My wife is nearing death.  

She cannot talk, walk or   

Lift her hands above her face, 

Yet those hands can gently grip, 

And sometimes even squeeze,  

As little signals of her love. 

She can, too, hear me chatter;

Joining in with tiny half-sounds

That sit sweetly in my heart.   

But it’s the touching, skin-to-skin -   

A hand, a wrist, a finger - 

That best keeps her loving fresh. 

    

                                                      

Of Loquacity

2023

I’m not, by nature, a very talkative chap;  

But when the dainty hand of my mute lady

Is engulfed in my greedy paw (and she’s awake), 

I become a gushing torrent of prattle!  

Remembering Dear Rodney

2023

Not long after his 

Unexpected death

We planted a young

Peppercorn tree

For him at the farm,

On a slope looking down

On the lawn where he

Loved playing croquet.

Norman, Geoff and Tony

In turn dug the hole. 

Rita loosened the new

Tree’s roots, talked to it,

And placed it in position.

Tiny Rohan and Emma, 

Wee trowel to hand,

Helped put the soil back.

Drought killed the little tree, 

But a sturdy successor 

Now thrives in its place. 

 Like Old Times

 (22/12/20)

2023

For a little while today, 

Maybe as much as ten minutes,

We slept together, 

Me on her bed,

She in her wheelchair;

And when I awoke,

We were still holding hands.

The Puzzle of My Father 

Part 1 

2023

A short man with a booming voice   

(Tailor-made for the Christian   

Congregations and Communist   

Mass meetings he addressed),

He seemed also a good man.  

Certainly, my mother respected him.    

She never spoke ill of him  

Even though he left her 

With two near-teen children,    

To live with another woman. 

Whether she loved him: who knows?.  

She confided to my sister:

They would kneel bedside and pray,  

But when he entered her  

It was like sandpaper.           

Sister and I were sure of his love.   

Then, abruptly, he left us with  

Curt, unremembered words of farewell, 

And no hopeful promises.   

Sister went blind for some days.    

The Puzzle of My Father 

Part 2

2023

 

New-minted Presbyterian parson, car-less, 

Walked a mile content to his church.   

Then Depression poverty enraged him. 

Stole him from God, handed him 

Over to Marx and ‘the party’.  

Dived into the political fray.

Mass meetings: a powerful orator,  

Hot for Hitler and Stalin as allies. 

Charged; ‘seditious utterances’; 

Got one year in jail.  

Mother, night-time weekly cached  

Tobacco for party prisoners.  

Father, freed at ten months, 

Took his family on holiday, 

Then off to the woman he loved.  

No phones: we children tried letters.   

He arranged one open-air meeting 

With baby half-sister and her mother. 

We were frantic to please; but mother  

Didn’t smile, had icy-cold eyes..

Years passed … At 19, I hitchhiked   

Long miles to see him, no warning. 

He greeted me without touching.   

Told staff I was ‘Ross’, gave me tea 

And biscuits, but no sense of parenthood.

Years passed … Mother made me write

To tell him I was marrying.  

He responded with a five-pound note 

And subtle mention of sacrifice. 

I sent the note back.  

Years passed …  Out of the blue, 

A letter to sister, a letter to me.     

Expressing his pride in her 

West End triumph, my career coup.   

Sister replied; but nothing came of it.  

Part 3

The puzzle within the puzzle.  

Our two half-sisters 

Were elderly teen-agers  

Before they learned   

Of sister and me.