Still Life
If I could smell the scent of those delicate roses,
Or taste the grapes, forever succulent and plump
on the vine
And pour myself a glass of rich red wine
From the elegant decanter standing sentinel behind -
If I could take just a bite
From one of the rosy apples in the bowl -
Those sweet tantalising juices
Might lull and soothe me in their seduction.
And if one more time I could hold the hand
That painted this picture
I could say - "Mother, I’m sorry."
I could tell her that her dementia
Plunged me into a whirlpool of uncertainty and fear
And now I know that if I felt this way,
How much more confused and afraid must she have been.
Perhaps then, I could quiet my growing doubt
That I might not have cared or done enough.
Her painting hangs on my wall,
The colours faded, the canvas cracked -
If I could only breathe new life into a still life...
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2002
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