Dementia

I walked into the kitchen so many years ago

And there upon the lino was porridge oats, like snow

Arranged around the worktop, pushed firm against the wall

The kettle, cups and saucers, like soldiers standing tall

My father washing cutlery in a sink of boiling pans

Too hot for him to handle so he couldn’t use his hands

He fished each one out slowly with the end of slatted spoon

And lined them up so neatly to join the rest of the platoon

He then had sprinkled porridge around the edges of the floor

And when I asked him why, he said “ I was in the war”