From St Patrick to St Patrick

By Helena Steel

You’re wheeled in to the warmth of an Irish welcome: smiles of carers 
lit by green lights, shamrocks jigging in the open door breeze.

Government lights flash red - the virus is running, numbers doubling.
Care home doors sigh shut on family, familiarity and the virus… they hope.

The Biggest Family Photo Ever hangs on your wall, a daily reminder of us,
Dear Dad. But it is care workers who keep our names, our love alive.

Death steals in on breath, a whisper. Fighting the silent-invisible, the 
home washes, sanitises, sterilises. They lose eighteen resident-friends.

A 26-year-old single mother care worker smiles, her warmth radiates
through the thinness of newspaper pages. She died no family at her side. 

Vacant seats haunt us from videos and photos of you smiling, painting, 
dancing to Irish music (to remind you of home). This cannot be just a job.

Phone calls tear out our hearts. Our explanation like words from the lips 
of a teenage hero in a dystopian novel. We can’t because of the virus. 

You know of birds, cycling, aviation, evacuation during the war. 
Covid 19 is a foreign language that your new brain cannot learn. 

You love the view from your urban window. You see seas, rolling 
waves, seagulls soaring. You feel the coast’s breeze. 

Good News! We can see you through glass. Masks disguise smiles, 
sorrow, our faces. It’s us, we love you. Your eyes tell us it’s been too long. 

St Patrick returns. Shamrocks shiver in the March breeze. 
Government shines the green light on visits - we have the luck of the Irish.

We keep our birdsong vigil by your side, imagine the sea, rolling waves, 
seagulls soaring. Breathe the coast’s breeze. 

You squeeze our hands, kiss our lips. But your last breath you save
for your carer. It is less than she deserves.

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Written Word ‘Soul’ poems