Oblivion’s grace
DEREK TURNER
In the deadness of Dove Wing
Mrs. Martindale waits –
For a Balt with an assortment of jars.
She’s a bird that has fallen,
Crashed into this place,
This carpeted cage without bars.
Stunned into quiescence,
Imprisoned by age,
What an end after flying so far!
The trolley is squeaking –
An Estonian face
Looms up and fades back into dark.
The wall clock is clicking
Low blood pressure pace,
The A-road’s a source of alarm,
And a TV is booming
In the residents’ space
Of worlds of ineffable charm.
Her daughter came calling
Once, furtive of face,
Impatiently eating her heart,
Couldn’t wait to be leaving
This embarrassing place
For her city so luckily far.
Since then, long dust falling –
Oblivion’s grace –
Slowly annealing all parts.
An old country yielding,
Through overthrown gates,
All ends going back to her start.
Hat-wearing each Christmas –
A delicate feast
As she watches the passing of cars,
Their lights on her face as
She looks vaguely east,
Hoping for prodigal stars.