Clive Eastwood

Empty lips flopping over gums.
From the soft-edged gap between them,
from time to time from between the pink
flakes of medication comes an Ohh!
as if you are about to begin
a story I have driven here, all yesterday
into sleet and blunt hills, to hear.

A rough slope rises outside
to the height of the pane. Sometimes
your hand lifts just off the cover,
you almost straighten a finger, pointing
and we try another half-spoonful.
The clumps of wet moor-grass droop
like old broomheads.
                                  I can see
a sheep on the hill, I watch it graze, I read
what you've eaten - yesterday's half soup,
fifty millilitres of tea. I put the spoon
into a hole in your skull,
want the slop to fall off but must scrape it
on your frail mouth. The thumbs up
I take for thanks. In this way
we add this morning over an hour
two wheat-biscuits in cold milk

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