The Going Of Great-Aunt May (Poetry)

Once a big, blowsy barmaid of a woman —
all bosom, beads and brightly lipsticked grin
the life-and-soul she’d been — our great-aunt May
with her whooping gale of an East End belly laugh.

Shrunk now and pale against a bank of pillows
she sinks half-conscious of the room and who attends
for all are shadows crowding in — old faces blur
and those she names in whispers seem more real to her.

Her fingers ringed from all those wedded years —
three marriages, thrice widowed, a host of husbands wait —
form a patient queue perhaps by that eternal gate
and they’ll have a lot to talk about, no doubt.

Her cheek as dry as paper — no powder — dab of rouge
to colour her skin. Her hair turned brittle straw
outgrown the bottle dye — her trademark redhead sauciness
that had matched the sheer bravado in her eye.

No mask tonight — no need — no point pretending any more.
A worn doll look about her in her faded blue nightgown
the satin ribbons fraying, bows drooping tired and dull
just one bedside lamp, well-shaded, burning on ...

Her eyelids twitch — she’s dreaming — drugged into another state
that allows her drift back through those long-closed doors
her expression eager — keen to meet again
the admiring throng — a clamour of past amours.

We each in turn bend low and give a kiss goodbye
and hear her sigh in answer — sense her restless spirit sway
then like some weathered boat that craves the big wide ocean
as night’s tide rolls in — we watch her slip away.