Perspective…

When I looked across the rooftops of London I’d imagine I could see Ellen, always, we shared the sky.  The thought of perspective and her seeing the same buildings from her place made the space easier.

I’m there when you worry,

I’m there when you wake, 

The froth on your coffee;

The i player tapes.

I’m sending a wish 

across wonderland skies,

A better new year,

As the best life implies.

We’re hopping from shopping

To next week at work,

You planning menus

And me the knee jerks,

You my best colleague,

And I your good cause

I’ll be in the marmite,

And under the floors.

This spring…

Last spring was a hopeful time and I wrote this as my daughter, Ellen, was coming to the end of her law qualifications and my mother was settling back at home. Suddenly the winter worry lifted again.

The cafe tables are on The Walk,

Ellen’s looking at flats,

Mum gets herself up

As the spring dawns mock,

These are the traceable facts.

I wash my jerseys,

Get out my shoes,

Delightful magnolia buds in the mews,

And we hope for a summer;

We’re looking for clues,

But mostly we win

With misgivings we lose.

Morning glory…

Last Friday I had a planning meeting for radiotherapy, and a walk across London on a sunny day.  The cancer centre at Guy’s is clean and efficient; the staff are very young, but kind and clear.  They want to know what happened in Zurich in 2005, I’m not sure we will ever know, yet the tattoos are apparently mostly still quite visible -they draw new markers to be sure.  I email the old University hospital, my oncologist email bounces back -it was long long ago!

So I lie down, on my back, with my arms above my head, proving I can hold my breath for 30 seconds, whilst that machine spins.

What is this

Shiny,

Brave new world?

Sun streaming in,

My limbs

Up-curled.

Sometimes 

I shut my eyes

To pray,

An electric

Pause in,

My working day.

I’m posed

And pinned,

And breathing hollow,

They go outside,

Where I won’t

Follow.

These silent rays,

Could give me

Days;

It’s all the odds

we have

She says.

Moving on…

I wrote this in the spring, when they took my mother into respite care; we though she would never come back. It is a big step, when your mum leaves your dad after they have been married over 60 years; he couldn’t look after her, she couldn’t look after him.

She quietly took the bag of toiletries I quickly picked up from Boots, the small case of clothes, I packed.  No fuss, no worries about possession or what would be useful, the goal was not to leave a noticeable gap, not to ask for help, not to be a hindrance.  If I hadn’t invested so much in trying to make her happy I might not have felt so bereft.

No shouting out, 

no screaming scenes.  

I gave her soap,

and moisture

creams.

A weekend case,

her worldly all,

No custody;

No overhaul.

As moving on,

Each day arrives,

Away from us,

she casually thrives.

I’m not her mother,

She’s not mine now;

She’s free, and frail,

And faint

somehow?

And now, she is stronger, we hope she will come home for Christmas.  It has been a year of surprises that we are now able to appreciate again.

Then we were two…

Our younger daughter moved out on Friday, in the most permanent way, every thing has gone.  I have moved my desk into her room and the evening wear into her wardrobe, she had a very sunny view over south London and I shall wallow there.  I have chosen a couple of pictures for the windowsill and brought through the poinsettia, trying to convince it that we are already in Mexico?

My desk at your window,

In charge of the town,

I feel like a visitor,

Your aura surrounds.

Across many hard days,

We talked

To this view,

The dreams of your future,

And what I should do.

Now sunshine between us,

We still share a sky,

Both working away,

Though London divides.

I’ll pop on the kettle,

Hope you too have tea,

And text you advice,

On life now you’re free…

Hands, face, space…

We have all grown accustomed to change now, and developed our ability to plan not to plan.

I think we are all 

expecting things

to lock down more

again, 

we know the score; 

I’m making sure 

we have a store

of cleaning stuff,

there is

no fuss.

Apparently the sales

of flowers

are down;

I’d like to find a barrow

and buy a bunch,

and have

a vase upon

the table.

Indoors,

the lights

along the Thames

are switching on,

it won’t be long,

until the winter

settles in,

this time.

An air…

Cranes and trains

and leaky drains,

And dusty paws

and cracked gas mains,

This is the London

Dog and I,

Partake in

under foggy sky.

When in the morning

Ellen too,

The dawning gets up

to pursue,

We chatter,

clatter up the stairs,

And catch

the Thames geese

unawares.

From night to day,

the gift of time,

The Tate lit up,

no Big Ben chimes,

I breathe the breath

that feeds the day,

And box the

laughing night

away.

Ode to Covid -19

I’m not alone,

I’m shut up tight,

with a man, and a dog,

and a lawyer bright.

We plan our meals,

and walks, despite

My lack of

ordered apetite.

As April calls,

I’m still at sea,

Unprecedented 

Actually.

We’ve all become

Suburbanite,

And virtually,

Virally erudite.

Our evenings,

Counting in the dead,

My days of

digital overheads;

The aim to keep us safe and well;

This glorious,

Global citadel.

Macmillan nurses, doctors and health professionals will continue to support people living with cancer whilst doing all they can to help alleviate the immense strain put on the NHS by coronavirus. Please donate today to help make sure we can keep delivering all our critical services.  macmillan.org.uk

Lambeth Bridge

An homage to Penny Lane, enjoy every sunbeam!

By Lambeth Bridge there is a man selling the big issues,

And in his rucksack is a block to black his shoes,

And the residents of Pimlico mews,

Buy his weekly news.

On the corner is a tower built on a drainage main,

It’s full of fundraisers who want make a pitch,

There’s a lot of things we’re trying to fix,

Next to MI6.

SE1 is in my fears and my devise,

Met’ beneath the true suburban skies

I sit, and meanwhile back…

By Lambeth Bridge there is a councillor on his daily run,

And over forty years it’s what he’s always done,

And the Spaniel walkers go and come,

In the morning sun.

SE1 is in the years and my surprise,

A tide of fish and finger pies

In summer, meanwhile back…

Beside the fire station’s a boat that you can dine upon,

And in the fun weather Embankment’s standing sites,

And the ambulances passing lights,

Bright up party nights.,

By Lambeth Bridge there’re fancy geese that tourist photos make

A pretty lady heads to work within the Tate,

Some days we know she’s late,

She’s our paintings mate.

SE1 is in my fears and my devise,

Met’ beneath the true suburban skies

I sit, and meanwhile back…

Lambeth Bridge!

Washed clean…

I’ve been doing a creative writing course and thinking about senses. I remember when I convinced the doctors to remove the breast implant (mastectomy) that was killing me softly -that day, I washed my hair. I normally bath, but on days when I shower I always remember, 14 years ago now!

She stands in the shower,
Remembers, skin tingling,
A post operative hour,
Through the stitched scars
still lingering.
The implant removed,
from the one it abused.

Now perfumed and bare,
With soap in her hair,
She is singing her heart out,
And dousing the scared.