She seems grateful for
the dynamic spark that
glows and dims, though dependant
on people with kind voices
and gentle hands.

They feed her encouragement,
talking books, letters on tape
from friends, former students
and, when she can take it,
a little food.

Her eyes burn brightly,
remnants of dying inner flames;
failing voice steadily
recalls hill stations of India
from half a lifetime back.

She climbed them then
in a vessel of youth;
she caught their pulsating richness
in illustrated diaries and
lyrical poems of praise.

The only climbing now
is in and out of bed with help.
Her body, once a golden cup of power
now grey and draped in
the penultimate shroud.

(c)Patrick Talty 2002