| A CRABBIT OLD WOMAN | ||||
|
|
What do you see nurses What do you see?
What are you thinking When you’re looking at me
A crabbit old woman, Not very wise.
Uncertain of habit With far-away eyes,
Who dribbles her food And makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice ‘I do wish you’d try’.
Who seems not to notice The things that you do,
And forever is losing A stocking or shoe,
Who unresisting or not Lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding The long days to fill,
Is that what you’re thinking, Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse, You are not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am As I sit here so still,
As I use at your bidding As I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten With a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters who Love one another, A young girl of sixteen With wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now A lover she’ll meet.
A bride soon, at twenty, My heart gives a leap
Remembering the vows That I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now I have young of my own
Who need me to build A secure happy home.
A woman of thirty, My young now grow fast,
Bound to each other With ties that should last.
|
At forty my young sons Now grown and will all be gone
But my man stays beside me To see I don’t mourn.
At fifty once more Babies play round my knee,
Again we know children My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, My husband is dead,
I look at the future, I shudder with dread
For my young are all busy Rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years And the love I have known.
And Nature is cruel
‘Tis her jest to make Old age look like a fool.
The body it crumbles, Grace and vigor depart,
There now is a stone Where once I had a heart.
But inside this old carcass A young girl still dwells,
And now and again My battered heart swell,
I remember the joys I remember the pain
And I’m loving and living Life over again.
I think of the years All too few – gone too fast
And accept the stark fact That nothing can last.
So open your eyes, nurses, Open and see,
Not a crabbit old woman, Look closer – see ME. Kate The writer of this poem was unable to speak, Although was seen to write from time to time. After her death, her locker was emptied and this poem of her life was found.
|
||