All At Sea

They found her in Victoria Gardens
at 7:30 in the morning.
Dressed in only a flimsy, loose nightie
and someone else’s slippers.
Clutching a little bunch of wildflowers
tightly to her chest…
whilst walking around and around
the same park bench.
It was where they used to sit together
and eat sandwiches of an afternoon
back when she was being courted
by her husband, or so her daughter says.
She’d walked out of the front doors
of the Care Home
about an hour and a half before,
when the Staff had buzzed the Milkman in.
Dementia’s a terrible thing,
doesn’t even remember who she is
half of the time, refers to herself as ‘Joyce’
and that was her younger sister’s name.
The only thing which stays clear
in her addled mind is that spot in the park,
so the police knew exactly where to find her.
“Harold” she cried, as they led her away,
“I can’t find my Harold anywhere?” bless her.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.