Thirle Dale-Thomas    "Walking Backwards"

Thirle Dale-Thomas has written a collection of poems about living with and caring for her husband Peter, who suffers from Alzheimer's with Lewy bodies.  

Walking Backwards is available to buy and proceeds go to Alzheimer's Society.

Contact Thirle Dale-Thomas and get your copy using the contact form.

---

---

Listen to Thirle talk about her poetry on BBC Radio Somerset

---

"Obliteration"  

I wake and reach out towards you –
I touch your hand, stroke it –

While I wonder how great a portion

Of our life has been stolen

By the greedy night.

 

The surreptitious thief has no compassion,

No boundaries mark a line he cannot cross.

 

The remaining offering on the plate –

The crumbs

Left behind for me to sweep into my hand –

Dwindles daily.

This cruel violation leaves a desolate landscape –

A mind lost – beyond all reconstruction.

 

Here is the man I love – diminished – dependant –

Waiting to be shaved, washed, dressed and fed.

We clutch at each other – achingly united –

Distraught and childishly helpless we cling together

While the last echo of our lost relationship

Manifests itself

In memorable hysterical laughter.

---

"While You Live"

This is just the beginning.

I have not finished with the grieving -

It carries on – a knife twisting –

Cutting at my entrails.

 

The weeping in supermarket aisles –

Tears falling at the Church communion rail

Sniffles at a shop counter

Crying into the kitchen sink

Overwhelmed by self pity – aching –

While I think about ‘how you used to be’.

 

Your wicked humour –

The amusing banter rolling off your tongue –

The private jokes – the shared laughter –

The ‘little boy’ sparkles in your blue-grey eyes –

The twinkle which speaks of ‘never growing up’,

The staying young together.

 

The vulnerable side – hidden by your shyness –

So often mistaken, by strangers, for arrogance –

While I, and the family, know your gentleness –

Understand your deep love for us

While we honour your fearless courage.

 

We lose you in more ways than one.

Long dragging days as you disappear

Into the dark regions of your illness.

You shuffle off – comprehending too much

Of what is happening – and yet not understanding

The simple actions needed for day-to-day living.

 

How hard it is to stand back

And not let the pain of our growing separation

Strain, to breaking point, the ability to carry on –

I do the jobs you always called your own –

Organising things – our life – alone

I sit in your chair,

At the desk in your study

I feel the imprint made over the years –

And smell the smell of your body.

 

I panic in my ignorance –

Where do you keep the tax files? –

The papers which are important? –

The Authorities say I am getting it wrong.

I realise I am on my own –

Caged in by more ways than one.

I bury my head in the sand

Quietly screaming and pray

That, while I am not looking,

It will all go away.

 

The next day, more disciplined,

I begin again – pick up the telephone –

Confident the worry will be eased;

The nights seem less long

If I make a start on all these issues.

A voice answers “Can I help you?”

And I want to shout “No you can’t –

There is no help out there!

No help anywhere!

You know nothing about my problems,

Nothing at all!” –

And I am appalled.

 

I choose to stand strong –

For both of us – as long as I can do so.

‘THEY’, those faces purporting to know, say

There could be five or more years living like this –

Each getting worse.

Sometimes, in moments of weakness

And unbelievable tiredness,

I have wished it to be over – finished.

How can I be so selfish?

 

Then, on a beautiful day –

Late spring or summer –

I sit with you, in the sun, in the garden –

I hold your hand –

Straighten your sun hat –

Catch your attention –

Tell you “I love you”

And you say “I love you too”

While the blackbirds sing –

Calling to each other

And the ring on my finger

Speaks of the things that matter.  

  

---

"Exhaustion"

 My soul has fled my body

Seeking sanctuary from the swirling turmoil.

The knot tightening in my gut

Is but a symptom of the deeper problem.

 

My strength has faded –

I am but a frail breath of my former self.

I am no longer young –

The mirror laughs

Through the eyes of my dead Mother.

 

I carry on – burnt out – exhausted –

The caring for my lost, but living, partner,

Leaves no room for friends or family.

Grandchildren, who mean so much to me,

Are occasional voices ‘on line’.

Things are fine they say –

“We don’t think we will get to see you these holidays.”

I say “We understand – you are all very busy

And, of course, we don’t mind.”

Knowing we mind – bitterly.

 

The hours rotate and grind my life

Between the millstones.

Blank walls have no windows to the light –

No measuring of the days –

No time for personal joy –

No time for quiet delight –

No time for music, books, or art.

 

The prison gate is locked – shut tight.

The world outside could be another planet.

Here is reality –

Here the endless round

Of chores, and body maintenance,

Make it easier not to think – or feel.

 

A robot takes my place – but –

I am not made of nuts and bolts and steel.

Slowly and surely the parts,

Which make me work, wear out.

I sense I might depart this world before he does –

And welcome dark sleep with open arms.