As if nothing is wrong, the sun calls,
unaware of the scare of a warm-weather panic.
Inside, on the radio, Maggie’s husband’s vascular dementia;
a call every morning, as soon as it’s light:
How was his night?
A second, and three generations on a video call.
Maggie, through a half-heard sob, half held back,
half restrained, half strained, like a forgotten
crowd at a small barrier, a rope, a low fence, nothing stronger,
says of the carers: they keep him around for a little bit longer.
Still unaware, the sun calls again, calls all day,
invites us to play, to emerge like pale fireworks
from winter’s shadow and burst across green and blue.
A turtle’s peek at cut grass, stretching from bandstand,
to play area, to pond, stretching on and on, an open invitation.
There's no celebration,
no forest of milk-bottle legs.