A Poem for December

His Present

He wakes and recalls clamouring children,

though the bedroom is far warmer, these days.

His carer’s voice returns him to the present.

‘Can’t hang around today pet.  Cooking for seven.’

He’s dressed, washed and instructed

to have A Merry Christmas.

The kettle’s whistle demands attention.

Sighing, he stirs porridge and ignores

the sparkling space beneath the tree.

Wandering then from room-to-room,

he hears past echoes but chases them away

by checking the phone is on the hook.

He’s had three days of meals on wheels.

‘See you on Monday old chap.’

He’s been given a card. ‘Have a lovely festive season.’

Sighing again, he waits for the microwave’s ping,

trying to ignore the family from across the way,

returning or leaving, he doesn’t know

and doesn’t care.

Too weak to pull the solitary cracker

but scissors are to hand.

Usually he watches the Queen but today,

slides into slumber as his crown

slumps over his eyes.

Dreams, full of past purpose and presents.

When he wakes, it’s dark.

Pouring himself a small sherry, he sinks back into his chair

and raises the glass into the air.

‘Merry Christmas.’  His voice alien in the stillness

yet the only one he’ll hear today.

Maria Stephenson

If the plight of the lonely elderly at Christmas moves you, please follow this link to make a donation to Age UK

https://www.ageuk.org.uk