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The winning poems from our 2025 Dementia together poetry competition

Dad checks his watch to see who’s due.
He asks where the car has been left tonight. 
He wants to get home to see the dog,
Back to the place where the dog is waiting.

He asks where the car has been left tonight. 
He’s searching for the keys in his pockets. 
Back to the place where the dog is waiting, 
He checks by the window, the chair, the door.

He’s searching for the keys in his pockets.
It’s late, someone will have to drive in the dark. 
He checks by the window, the chair, the door.
His mother, his sister, his wife – someone is waiting, frowning.

It’s late, someone will have to drive in the dark. 
He wants to get home to see the dog.
His mother, his sister, his wife – someone is waiting, frowning. 
Dad checks his watch to see who’s due.

‘Beautifully written’

Kathy says, ‘I am really delighted to have won first place in the competition. I really didn’t expect to.

‘My dad is 77. He’s been in different hospitals now since April, when he was admitted after wandering out of his house the night before. He’s been in the same hospital now for quite a while.

‘I don’t think he knows me anymore but I am still familiar to him on some level.

‘It’s been a sad and difficult period, and he has changed quite a lot since I wrote the poem. He talks much less now but he’s well looked after.’

Our judges commented, ‘It really meant something. It has a very clever construction, technically it captures you. 

'“Is it time to go” – is that time to go home, or to die?’

‘Beautifully written. It was quite repetitive, and I felt there was an urgency, a worried and confused mind.’

In our favourite coffee shop, 
she peers at the menu
like a map of uncharted lands, 
her finger a weaving compass, 
circling silent, shifting choices.

A lifelong lover of the bland and unbuttered, 
she startles us both –
a tall glass of dandelion and burdock fizz
with a bold wedge of chocolate and beetroot cake, 
ridiculous and strange, like an item misnamed.

“Are you sure?” I say gently.
She doesn’t answer – looks around unanchored, 
hands smoothing the tablecloth,
pulling at invisible threads.

This faithful disciple of decorum, 
now rests her elbows on the table, 
licking her knife in quiet rebellion, 
leaving half the sticky treat to me.
I watch her mind attempting to assemble 
the script of what comes next.

After that, I start choosing for her, 
the simple things, the familiar tastes 
I think she loves.

We stop navigating the menu. 
Stop going out.
Her world contracts to kettle, cup and care.

I sit adrift, sipping tea for one, 
losing my mum
in small invisible increments. 
Missing her before she is gone.

‘It’s all in the title’

Deborah says, ‘I am thrilled that my poem has been chosen.

'My mum passed away in 2018. She lived with vascular dementia and I’m sure she would approve of me sharing our story – she was always my biggest supporter. I miss her every day.’

The judges said, ‘It’s all in the title. The person being written about irritated me and then I felt guilty. It evokes a paradoxical response.’

‘The language and the way it started off was like the last time I took my mum out for afternoon tea. Choosing things that you would never have picked, totally out of the norm.’

‘As well as a person living with dementia, even the caregiver is “all at sea”, none of us knows what will happen.’

I used to think it was only old age 
consuming his body early

& making him swallow 
his words, but one night

while we sat at the kitchen table, 
he said he didn’t know who

he was anymore. That’s what I got 
for marrying a running man—

one day he ran away from himself.
Then he forgot where he left

his father’s old overcoat though 
I didn’t think anything of it.

Soon, more & more dishes broke 
in his hands, the same hands

which carried our daughter as though 
she was spun from spider silk.

Some say forgetting always starts 
with words, even the oldest ones

like mother & father get buried 
as memory collapses in on itself.

We are what we remember 
& those who are good

at forgetting fall in love with life 
over & over again, never exhausted.

'Brave and damning'

Elena says, ‘I’m very grateful to the organisers and the judges for choosing this poem. Alzheimer’s Society is doing great work, so this means a lot to me.’

Our judges said, ‘The imagery for this one was good, and it has good structure.’

‘I read them all out aloud to my daughter and my granddaughter, and we liked how it flowed.’

‘It is interesting how the writer speaks of the “running man” himself acknowledging that things are changed and that they no longer recognise themselves. This is brave and damning.’

I will look after you in your confusion, I was desperate to look after you.
I did my very best, but it was not good enough.
I organised your morning, suppertime and evening pills. 
I brought the glass of water to help you swallow them.
I bought the neat little wheelchair to get you around the house.
I pushed you everywhere, but I needed you to stand and walk a few steps.
I made your meals, cut up the difficult things, put everything on the table, even fed you.
I brought your drinks, juice, tea and coffee, occasional glass of wine.
I dressed and undressed you; which cardigan is it to be today darling?
I helped you to wash yourself, put toothpaste on the brush.
I washed your hair, dried and combed it, your straight white hair looked lovely.
I took you to the toilet, day and night; I organised your incontinence pad supply.
I took away the old and positioned the new pad every time!
I made your bed and helped you into it and out; I slept beside you to comfort you.
I arranged the physiotherapist visits, encouraged you to exercise, sitting and standing, 
I gave up in despair so many many times.
We watched the two funny fishermen on TV; to bed earlier and earlier.
I played CDs of the wonderful slow Mozart, to calm your mind. 
I saw your terrible choking and coughing get worse and worse. 
Eating food, drinking and swallowing “EDS” became a problem.
I became so tired with lack of sleep, I could not cope.
You could not stand and walk, unaided, the hospital OT equipment was in vain.
I did not realise just how weak your damaged ischemic heart was.
In the end it was this combined with a coughing spasm; “Help Me”, you said.
I didn’t even realise that you were dying, it was so sudden.
I called 999 for the ambulance, it was here in less than four minutes.
How kind they were, but too late to help you. The police and undertaker came.
You were beautiful in death as you were in life.
Did I fail you, my darling wife? Please forgive me, I did my best.

‘You are not alone’

Robin says, ‘What an unexpected surprise! I am a retired scientist, not a poet, but did write some poems many years back when working in Germany, under rather stressful personal conditions.

‘Following my wife’s death in 2024, I rapidly wrote and delivered her eulogy in Hexham Abbey, and then immediately started writing the poems.

‘They just flowed out from me speedily, nearly always with no further changes.

‘Reading them late at night tends to make me rather sad, not a good thing as I’m still grieving.’

The judges said, ‘This poem made me cry and I haven’t cried in ages. As a carer you always feel you haven’t done enough.’ 

‘This poem will inspire people supporting others, that you are not alone feeling this.’

‘This is a wonderful poem, beautifully written.’

‘The thing about guilt is that you do feel guilty – however much you have given up and done for the person. There is always that small question about “what if?” and “should I?”’

sometimes the mind forgets
like wildflowers bending in the wind— 
names slip, faces fade,
and it feels like losing pieces of yourself, 
a slow unravelling you don’t ask for.
but there’s a light that doesn’t quit, 
a laugh that echoes in the quiet, 
soft moments where love shows up
like sunlight breaking through the clouds. 
even when the words won’t come,
or the stories scatter in the breeze,
the heart remembers how to hold on— 
to kindness, to touch, to the small things. 
and maybe that’s what’s left:
not perfect memories, 
but perfect love—
wild and messy and alive, 
still growing in the cracks.

‘Beauty in meadows’

Our judges said, ‘Sometimes in life, things are not perfect and yet love still prevails. Wild and messy is absolutely fine, things do not need to be “just so” to be wonderful.’

‘Some gardens can be streamlined and beautiful, but there can also be deep and meaningful beauty in meadows full of wildflowers.’

Two steaming mugs sit between us.
‘It’s a lovely day’ I say, opening the blinds.

‘It’s far too bright – and it’s glaring
Right into my eyes.’ I rise and close the blinds.

‘You want a coffee?’ He asks. 
‘I’ve got one here thanks Dad,’ 
I say, raising my mug.

‘You gonna pop your specs on Dad?’
‘I need a new pair.’ I stare, ‘but these are new.’

He shakes his head at me and laughs.
‘They’re ancient, like me!’ I see, he thinks I’m wrong.

‘You want a coffee?’ He asks. 
‘I’ve got one here thanks Dad.’

‘You turned the router off again,
Your doorbell’s offline – it’s fine.’ I flick the switch.

‘You’ve switched your landline off as well.’ 
I half laugh, half sigh, as I plug it back in.

‘You want a coffee?’ He asks. 
‘I’ve got one.’

‘Now, have you had your tablets Dad?’
‘Yes... No... let me think.’ I wink, and reach to check.

‘Here’s your cornflakes Dad – with sugar.’
I lift an eyebrow, and now, he laughs with me.

‘You want a coffee?’ He asks. 
Wrapping him up in a hug 
‘I’ll make us another’ I say.

‘Feel and see’

Debbie says, ‘I am thrilled to be having my poem published especially as it’s a subject close to my heart. It is somewhat bittersweet though, as my lovely dad will be so proud of me but the rendition of our daily routine reflects mixed emotions of frustration, humour and sadness.’

The judges said, ‘In this poem, you can just feel and see a daughter supporting her dad, and from a learning aspect this is about learning how to be patient and accepting, taking the cue to ignore it when a person living with dementia continually repeats themselves.’