AT EITHER ENDS OF THE STREET

AT EITHER ENDS OF THE STREET

At either end of my street live two elderly women

Called Eileen. One is overweight and near housebound,

Her legs and feet swollen, but what with medication

Drops, nurses, neighbours, she has no real need

Of movement as no moment she has appears free.

The other’s thin, frail and sways before some early

Point of dementia. Or perhaps the word port is more

Fitting, as the world she once savoured, or so it seems

To me, sets to sea. Her son lives a few houses down

And has her onscreen every moment. But once a day

She eludes him and can be seen making her escape

From my door. ‘Where are you off to?’ I ask,

As she turns to smile at me, ‘Just up the hill, to the

Corner and possibly round the bend,’ she implores.

Her will is what’s sick. Her self-awareness seems

Healthy. I smile at her softly and at the slow poignancy

Of her plight. Perhaps that’s me in a few years, I think,

As I do my best now to guide her. I listen to the scrape

Of her footsteps and watch from the end of the road

Her sweet fight. She has an old zimmer frame,

With two stops at the back and two front wheels

To move her. The entire thing topples, as she can’t

Control it all with her grip. ‘You son needs to weight this,’

I say, ‘as the pavement here is uncertain.. I don’t want

You to fall..’ ‘So, you’ll watch me? She says, ‘If you keep

Your eye on me I won’t slip..’ But I don’t need to keep

Watch all day, as her son has seen it all on his camera.

But when he appears, he isn’t what I would call all that

Grateful, as a stranger of sorts helps his Mum. This Eileen

Does not know why she walked, apart from the need

To keep moving. His slight reprimands stun me,

As he questions her movements, as any confined soul

Seeks release. Especially the old from their bind

And the dead as well from their exile. As I watch them

Go inside I see spirits, as Blake must have done

On the roof. They careen and caper and slide in wild,

Free abandon. And I see both Eileens when young,

Happy, dancing, and my parents as well: lost to truth.

For each of us remain kept within these small

And instant illusions: what we are now is an echo

Of what we were then and will be.

At least my dear Dad remained young, or young

Enough to know freedom. While I am writing, reading

Can see my aging face easily. You’ll see it too,

If you look at this image recorded. And then see

Your own in your mirror, and the boy or girl

You once were. For these days of lockdown

Are spells, albeit free of enchantment.

And as we try to walk a few paces we in some

Way ape those birds,

That are the only angels we know,

Even if at times they besmirch us;

Little white blobs of heaven

That stain shirt and pavement

And render the fears on earth quite absurd.

David Erdos April 28th 2020 

For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection 

David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.

David Erdos

©    David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.