At my house in Beaumaris
when you were five,
you ran straight down the passage
out the back door, jumped
in the pool and lay still
face down on the bottom.
Your mother, alerted
by profound instinct,
looked up at that moment;
in three strides reached the edge
leaned in and hauled you out.
Now you’re thirty-eight,
and the fault entirely
the other driver’s. Once more
you lie motionless. You have
your mind, your speech
and some use of your arms.
She is rescuing you again
in slower, subtler ways.
This time it takes
lawyer, carers, bedside visits
and long-term practical plans.
When I phoned, your voice
was strong and glad.
You sounded just like you.
And I kept remembering
you were such a funny
wriggly little boy.
(Wednesday prompt: Write a poem to an audience, i.e. addressed to a person or thing. Identify your audience in the title.)
How nice to be off work! I've been wandering through your different poetry pages, silently, but enjoying everything I find.
ReplyDeleteYou write so much. I admire this. I am much more of a phasey poet!
Thanks, Jenny.
ReplyDeleteIt's the prompts that do it! That and "time's winged chariot" which I'm starting to hear, albeit faintly.
Doubt if I could do it if I was in full-time employment like you.
Also I wonder when I am going to find time to revise and polish these pieces. :)
But there – I have little concern for posterity nowadays; more interested in reaching people here and now.
I agree with j. adamthwaite - you are certainly prolific! But your work also has quality.
ReplyDeleteThis poem made me cry. It reminded me that, even though my daughter is bipolar, it can be so much worse...
Thank you for sharing this intimate thought with us all.
Love, A (Momskas)