She made slow progress
down the darkened hall,
a cut rose past its prime,
head heavy, bloom faded.
Lift … push … shuffle …
the frame guided
by hands half hidden
in fingerless gloves.
In the dutiful times of war
a suitor was repelled
lest he deflect her from
the patriarch.
Struggling to comply
with the unwritten plot
she left a job of some repute
to tend an aging father,
washing the daily fallout
from incontinence,
feeding the failing flesh and minds
of father then mother.
At the crossroads of their release
she chose the bedside
of the aunts, one by one,
selflessness expected.
A generation dwindled
and died. Her job was done
but the future dwelt
in darkened rooms
with a two bar radiator,
doors closed
and the keys on a ribbon
round her neck.