The Residentsí Lounge
Sarahís chair is over by the window
although she canít see through it.
They turn her seat inwards
towards the fuzzy circle
of other ancient faces, lined, creased.
Dry, like her grandmotherís 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 didnít know wasnít worth Ö.
or what she used to.
Lavender oil in her bath
has made her dreamy, dozing
until a girl shakes her arm,
ĎReady for your shampoo,
Sarah?í Letís get you sorted.í
Sarah eyes the looking glass
and canít find herself,
only her great-grandma.
Mirrors donít lie. She sighs, lost
between the pages of her life.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Ceinwen Haydon would be
pleased to hear them.