Avril Poem by Rhona Aitken

Her face is lit by inner thought
we cannot fathom
We cannot offer her a smile
or nod assurance.
She can barely see us,
barely hear us.
When we speak to her we shout;
distorting attitude, voice -
in the effort to be understood.

We try to penetrate the mist
that blankets her day,
but pleasure is easily bruised.
Belittled.
Better her inner memories
that bring pleasures we cannot know.

Don't break the reverie.
Our consciences don't matter -
sorrow - yes - but then
let it go.