The lady who has not

On either side the road there lie
The houses of the folk nearby,
Who daily venture forth & try
To earn the wage which they live by,
     But close by there’s a spot
Where’s four grey walls, (but no grey towers)
Overlook a space of flowers.
Within, a silent room embowers
     A Lady, left to rot.

It is not that she is starving there,
She’s warm and fed, the staff all care,
But dignity of life is where
You’re independent and aware
     Of everything you’ve got.
Not what you’ve lost: the failing sight,
The health that once was yours by right.
Unsteady legs add to her plight.
The Lady’s lost a lot.

In years gone by she lived her life
A caring and devoted wife,
But now she’s widowed, pain is rife,
She only longs to end her strife,
     To leave this earthly plot.
But Death, does not appointments keep,
One can’t pre-book the great long sleep
So she endures discomforts deep:
The Lady has a lot.

Her memories go: that mirror clear
Reminding her through all the year
Of how the world did once appear
Is dim, and so today’s more drear.
She waits for God knows what.
Is it too much for her to crave
The quiet that comes from in the grave?
The chosen have departed, save
     This Lady, who has not.

The one thing that she knew with pride
Was for her children she’d provide
They’d get her money when she died:
She had some property beside,
     But that’s all gone to pot:
She lives, and so the money’s spent
In paying for her keep & rent
She wonders sadly where pride went:
The Lady hasn’t got.

She’s little left, but cannot die.
And no-one is allowed to try
To help her from her misery.
Yet oft’ she’s raised a mournful cry
     “The powers that be should not
 “Insist that it’s against the law.”
If offered, would she take it or
Postpone it for a week or more?
      She’d wait as like as not.

Written for a 95 years old lady.
(With apologies to Tennison’s Lady of Shalott)