Searching Poem by Jennie Radley

The room is silent.
The hiss of the machine is drowned in silence,
Invading noises from beyond are swallowed.

The frail craggy profile stares at the blank ceiling,
Mouth working anxiously
As blind eyes try to make sense of the nothing they see,
As blind mind reaches to comprehend its own emptiness.

I take her hand. The bony twisted joints
Plumply hide in useless puff, pink, shiny.
Is SHE still there? Does this dying wreckage
Still harbour the love, the singing warmth,
That once was SHE?

The words I speak draw no response.
She does not know herself as “Mum”.
Her restless lips make no sound, no recognition;
Her eyes move, link with mine,
Slide off again to search the space above.

Holding her hand, I start to sing.
I have sat before like this, holding a dying hand,
Trying to spirit love to a soul beyond my reach,
Painting a sound-picture for a world I do not know.

I walk through Vales of Shadowy Death, and Hide Myself in Cleft Rocks;
I Feed on Heavenly Bread, but still her eyes stare up,
Ceaselessly, peacelessly searching for the unknown.

Helpless, I, like the Wondering Minstrel, thread
Shreds and Patches into a serenade
Of Birds in Gilded Frames, and Old Kit Bags,
Of Myfanwy and Maggy May,
Of Old Kent Road and Tit-Willow.

There is a sound.

With each long-drawn breath she hums in time,
Her mouth at peace. Is that a smile?
SHE is at Home.

I kiss her hand, and hold it
As she gently falls asleep.