Whatever Happened to (Good) Neighbours?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

This poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008. I feel the sentiment if not the poem deserves an airing. I am so lucky, living alone as I do, to have a small, but reliable network of friends who would soon realise if anything was seriously wrong.

Now, we may like to think we are looking out for family, friends and neighbours, but it is so easy to be caught up in other events, issues, whatever...and forget to look. New technology and modern medicines mean that many areas of the world have an elderly population that is growing all the time. We need to look out for our older neighbours, and never assume someone else will. Yes, there is a risk we'll be sent away with a flea in the ear although most people would welcome  anyone taking the time to care. Besides, what's a flea in the ear compared to a guilty conscience...?

I have to say, I don't expect a 'good turnout' at my own funeral when the time comes, but the poem is not about me... 😀

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO (GOOD) NEIGHBOURS?

There are muddy hand prints on a gate

that groans as it swings in the wind;

footprints on a path lead to broken steps

rising to a weepy front door pleading

to be opened, local kids making mischief
by hitting its push button bell, run away
down back a maze of back alleyways sure
to ring with their hoots of laughter for years, 

and bring tears to old eyes

The old house is haunted, neighbours say

since the gruesome discovery made

of an old woman who lay dead in her bed

for more than a year, no one to shed

a tear or so much as notice her gone from

the daily round of laundry, shopping, 

weeding the garden, trimming the hedge

minding her own business like a ghost,
less inclined to socialise than most perhaps 

nor exactly ostracised for this, though hardly

a neighbourly thing to do

Oh, but the neighbours having a field day,

gossiping about the grimy windows,
not to mention the net curtains, and a garden
that's a disgrace to the whole community,
weeds grown tall and spreading, everybody
asking whatever's got into the old girl?
High time (surely?) somebody looked into
what's what there, but no one (heaven forbid)

wanting to appear a busybody

Problem solved when a relative chanced to call,

and a good turnout at the funeral

Copyright R N Taber 2007, rev.2019 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Crying Shame' in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]