May

May was my Nan.

May wakes in the night with a large, green parrot on her shoulder.
It gives tilting glances from black press stud eyes,
And struts up and down her radiator making the room turn cold.
It hasn’t learnt to speak yet and she’s far too old to teach it.
It leaves droppings in the hallway that have always gone by morning.
And May does not like it,
So she’s crying that she’s dying
And she shakes with fear not age
as she locks it in a cage.
May is nearly eighty.

SJL, 1982.

Drawing, ‘Olive’, commissioned piece. Pastel on paper, 40x40cm

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