After the Stroke: I
Her eyes scan
the room
like a waking child
surprised
by the morning.
The shapes of words
form on her lips
but
fall away
unspoken.
Like snowflakes,
caught
in my hand
and brought
to my mouth.
Like bread from the altar.
They tingle my tongue
with
the forgotten
fizz
of sherbert.
As I speak her words for her.
With her.
After the Stroke: II
When you popped round
I had prepared
a pile of prints,
a fan of photos
spread
between my chair
and hers.
You’ve been busy,
you said,
in the day since she died,
and built a mosaic of memories.
A monument? Yes.
But not a wall,
I said,
but a bridge.
After the Stroke: III
Five weeks on, I faced
the perfume of the wardrobe
and cleared her clothes
from my room.
- © British Journal of General Practice 2013