inspired by artwork by Stephen Fisher (First Light, 1981)

She looks out of the sitting room window

during tea time to admire the forest beyond the stream.

Brown doe eyes, always fixated

on some far off point between the trees.

I am thankful for days like this, where she will simply stare,

tea left cold in her porcelain cup

held between two porcelain hands.

Other days she looks out fearfully,

terror etched in lines on her cherub face and twisting

her cupid’s bow lips into an ugly grimace.

She shakes but does not otherwise move,

lukewarm tea spilling on her pastel gown.

On those days I look out with her and see nothing

but the black, black shadows creeping along the ground

as the sun sets.

I wish she could tell me what she sees.