It’s morning
Squiggles of silvery trails
Lead to rainy night snails
She’s lost the thread
Of something in her head
Looks out of the window
At a bird flying by
A monogram in the sky
To remind her
Of something she’s forgotten
A queasy feeling
Of standing on an empty stage
It happens at her age
She forgets the next line
Misses a cue
Not knowing what to do
She watches the hands of the clock
Move slowly round its face
In an ever faster race
To mark off the seconds
Minutes
Hours
Of the rest of her life
In an old photograph
