YIZREEL'S DEATH.

A YOUNG NURSE AND AN OLD MAN.

I was there
when Yizreel died.
He'd had
his third stroke.
He looked at me
with his dull eyes,
but he never spoke.

I nursed him after his first,
aided him through his second;
the voice surviving,
a lame left wing,
walking with a slide
of leg and stick.

You take good care of me,
he said, like a good son,
better in fact, not out of duty,
nor the the wages, I expect,
I'd hear him say,
in what they pay.

I loved him like a father,
a grandfather I didn't have;
washed him, dressed,
shaved and brush his hair;
he pretending all was well
as if he didn't care.

I attended his funeral;
sat amongst his family
unnoticed by most,
except by his son,
a tall thin man, here,
he said,he's a fiver,
for work you've done.

I was there when Yizreel
died his death;
a closing of his dull eyes
and ease of breath.

Reviews

[Clockwork]

I agree with Chris. It's as if the speaker in this poem erects a monument against time for the lost man. He remember his end, and his grace, even after the strokes. He offers those intimate experiences he had with Yizreel to his readers, so no one forgets.

He was blessed to have such an empathetic soul by his side at the end, something many others don't have in elder care facilities today. This poem really touched me.

[Terry Collett]

Thank you for reading & commenting.

[Clockwork]

You're welcome. Thank you for sharing

[Chris]

Listening to this was like "standing witness"

[Terry Collett]

Thank you, Chris.