A carafe of water fills the stomach and no organs are disturbed,
yet it is unclear like a mirror without a timbre.
She drank gin pale as water, but it made her smile and laugh.
She painted pictures with her voice, told stories of days gone by.
Old, but she had been young and done things she sang about.
She wowed a carpet of life lived, full of magic colours, too vivid
for some, a grandmother is supposed to be chaste.
Sent to a home for the very old and inept, a song bird silenced.
She watches TV on a screen high on the wall for her not to reach
up and throw into the dustbin of tedium. Hands folded like a tired
bird’s wings she waits for an end that takes long time coming.
And the carafe of water has dust on its surface.