By the light of the local Spar
Eyes snapped shut in the street-facing bedroom
lit up by the light of the Spar
that floods it's white plastic windows
illuminating each passing car
In her curled up hands a faded old photo
but the hands,once so gentle,that hold this mementoe,
are as cold,are as granite, as stone
In came Sister with a meagre tea tray
barging in,past the bed,past the chair,
but Sister's time was nearly done,her shift almost won,
and the truth was,she'd long ceased to care
Pushing open the small top window,
then sweeping the curtains to one side
she adjusts the heating's thermostat,
setting it's dial to five
Then,”Tea-time”,she shouts,in a patronising voice,
time to get up! It's nearly seven!”
oh,the joys of being trapped in a modern care home
caught somewhere between hell and heaven
Don't you know that the paintwork is fading?
can't you see that the bodyclock will stop?
in those satanic,piss-filled corridors,
can't you hear them,one by one drop?
Sister turned,saw the unmoving bed,
saw the mask of death for a face
whilst the glow of the Spar,in the evening,
hung eerily over the place
Moving the tea-tray and it's catchment of pills,
onto the flat-topped trolley in the hall,
she briskly marches down carpet-worn stairs
to greet another, waiting guest,in the hall.