The Residents’ Lounge
 
Sarah’s chair is over by the window
although she can’t see through it.
They turn her seat inwards
towards the fuzzy circle
of other ancient faces, lined, creased.
Dry, like her grandmother’s cheeks.
 
She hears a blackbird call
through windows left slightly ajar,
Silver tones of late summer, far-off
memories of haystacks, cider,
harvest-home ceilidhs and shy kisses.
 
She strokes her mohair shawl,
smells moth balls on the wool
sheared from bell-wearing goats
on mountainsides. The name
escapes. Once, she passed
her eleven plus. Clever lass
what she didn’t know wasn’t worth ….
or what she used to.
 
Lavender oil in her bath
has made her dreamy, dozing
until a girl shakes her arm,
‘Ready for your shampoo,
Sarah?’ Let’s get you sorted.’
 
Sarah eyes the looking glass
and can’t find herself,
only her great-grandma.
Mirrors don’t lie. She sighs, lost
between the pages of her life.

Ceinwen Haydon


If you have any thoughts on this poem, Ceinwen Haydon would be pleased to hear them.