Final Move

by Fiona Atchison

With careless hands they wash and wipe
All dignity away, then prod and pull
Without regard for who she is, or was
Her finer features undisclosed
To those who will not stop to pause

And then they guide her to a chair,
Where she may sit and droop and stare

For visitors the time drags long
A duty done in stifling warmth
With smells of fetid food and age
Low murmurs stumble round the room
In cloistered constraints of a cage

And as they stand to kiss goodbye,
She bravely smiles and does not cry

Routine replays each waking hour
A pendulum of passing time
Dull eyes gaze but cannot see
From out the circle of decline
Lost in a sombre reverie

And when they say now well life seems,
She feels the rise of silent screams

As independence slowly fades
So does the fervent hope of home
The talk of a return some day
Seemed to be a trick, a ploy
To cast the burden well away

And now they joke to humour her,
While she relents without demur

With each day fumbling over next
Long weeks decay to months
Cocooned inside a sealed domain
A muddle minded world begins
Where she recalls her youth again

And so with protests left unsaid
She meekly walks wherever led