While she’s in hospital, her house is being undressed
without a screen; not even a backless robe for dignity.
Seven decades of frugality splayed on the floor;
sheets turned middle to side, socks darned
in companionable pairs, cherry picked for charity shops,
or bagged for recycling.
Blood stains on bedroom and kitchen carpet map
her many twilight falls, and on shelves beyond her reach
enough boxes of light bulbs to illuminate the next
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Hannah Stone
would be pleased to hear them.