Curtains flutter when pulled by long, thin bones.
Out of the corner appears a single eye, scrutinising those who enter this world.
Few cross the cattle-grid frontier and the fading eye strains for a recognisable face.
A stranger.
It'll fill a few moments chatter over plum-jam tea.
A large, white button orders 'Ring and Wait!' and the white, stern-faced sentinel checks entry.
The corridor stretches onwards; spotless clean,
Pictures, pot plants, flowers, walking sticks, hand rails, wheelchair.
The flowers fail to mask the hospital smell,
And the aged, feebly walk the corridors - nowhere to go!
Hollow eyes that once sparkled in joy-
Now are marble-glazed.
Hands that once caressed Morfydd Jones in the deep bracken on Pen Pych-
Are now scarred, veined and shaking.
Legs that once briskly walked the wooden slopes-
Are bent with age.
Now in the twilight of life we pay our respects,
But the seconds tick by.
(T.E.T 1970)
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