A short poem about aging and contemplating…
By Eve Jones, Art Psychotherapist
“The yellow wooley rug,
A forgotten mug on the side,
The intervals of the birds cheeping
Grow longer and tired.
On those rainy grey days
Short, wet, cold, defeated.
The man next door, he’s fretting about the radiator being overheated.
He’s fretting about turning the radiator on,
He’s worried about the bills that accrue from washing his clothes
He won’t put on more layers out of anxiety that his money won’t stretch
“I’m always cold,” is what he says.
An inconspicuous path,
The lady next door sat looking out of the window
Hidden by the wide broken leaves.
In her garden, along side the fence
She see’s the children, their parents
She tries to make sense,
“Where has the time gone?”
Since she was collecting her infants from the school pick up.
Sometimes the world seems too much.
The people and cars that flood the streets
The paperwork, the washing up, the people who I said that I would meet
But didn’t,
or haven’t yet, I’m still trying to make time.
It’s hard to make time…
People who say they miss me, they depend on me, they can’t get to the shops,
They say… “that’s fine”
“I know you’re busy, living your life.”
My endless to do lists, all those birthdays, get better soon,
I’m thinking of you visits that I’ve missed,
That I promised to go to and haven’t gone yet?
I’ll go tomorrow… I mustn’t forget.
