Her Hand

Joyce Ohara


The child peeks through the edged window

Standing in the chill of early autumn

Waving and speaking but not heard.

Engulfed in feelings of woe.

Her mother lies sleeping and breathes heavily

With carer caressing her hand,

Soothing each groan

And stroking her silky, silver hair.

I yearn for my hand to be there.

My mother had dementia and spent her last few days of life in a care home. The kindness of the carers to my Mum was overwhelming, but heart wrenching. I knew I would never take for granted again the freedom to comfort and communicate with a loved one, by touch.