“You’re cruel”,
She tells me every morning
Stepping out of the shower
Into the radiator warmed bathrobe
I’m holding
For her.
Sunday night was bathnight
When I was a girl.
A steamy, bubbly snowfield
To play in
But the hairwash after
That was torture.
Me screaming “You’re cruel,
Grandad save me”.
I wonder if she remembers this
Every morning
When she tells me I’m cruel.
A carers tale told only as a carer can. Soft and warm with a dash of bitter reality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Stepping out of the shower Into the radiator warmed bathrobe I’m holding For her.- - - - - - - -> very well-written visual