When I forget you, as they say I will,
With age, and knowing that my brain is ill;
When I forget you, when I do not smile
On seeing you, and have become 'a trial',
There would be something that I'd want to say
Of love, but will not know it when I face that day.
How will it be? Who will I become?
I've seen them sitting - listless, vacant, dumb.
I've seen one tense and angry, raging, shouting
Curses at the nurses who'd brought him on an outing
To the sea. Confused as him, I may shout too,
Forgetting where and what I am, and who.
When I forget you - and this I hate to think -
I will not love you. You will feel the broken link,
But I will not. More likely then to miss my Mum,
Or fall for some old dear who lets me come
To hold her strange old bony hand, and wait
The trolley round: tea, two biscuits on a plate.
©stevesmith March 2015