A mansion stands serenely
in a leafy quiet street
Oaken door so welcoming
Spring garden so replete.
Façade of cream and tinged with gold
Old columns towering tall,
Victorian architecture
Behind a garden wall. 

"Welcome" shows the sign
Nearby a list of rules
As visitors step inside
to cool tiled vestibules.
Moving further down
Ornate high ceilinged hall,
Small sounds of aged confusion
Upon most ears would fall.

Suddenly a change
The parlours now behind
A green door out of place
Beside a bamboo blind.
Opening that door,
the sounds and cries strike home,
Assaulting senses into shock
the sudden screams and moans.

Mostly all are eighty plus
Their minds no longer here
Dementia reigns in their sweet souls
Relief will not appear.
Heads are lowered onto plates
They do their best to eat.
The staff are always kindly
But little time, is hard to beat. 

The eyes that stare from faces withered
Show minds don't comprehend
Who is who, or what is what
Each day the same descends.
Sometimes one hears great protest
A memory that's arisen
From scattered thoughts inside the mind
The cries of feared oblivion.

On taking leave of such a place
Sadness - is not the word.
Sheer despair gives rise to prayer
and that it may be heard.
That these dear souls just fall asleep
Go home to meet their Lord
Protected, whole, forever more
From dementia's vicious sword. 

©Anne N. Byam  
2008
Used With Permission
All Rights Reserved By Author
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I dedicate the above poem to my mother who is 99 years of age and has dementia. She is in high care in a Nursing Home in Camberwell - a suburb of Melbourne. I have described the nursing home as realistically as possible - it is a magnificent old Victorian mansion. Casual passers-by outside, could not know what lies behind the closed doors.