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.]