Mysteries of the morning,
It’s not something mum buys –
Little tub of pink powder, open,
Killing the wholesome country life.
Sibling urges, ‘You can have some too.’
He is never nice to me,
A poison perhaps.
Knotted frown from the far corner
Enduring our collaboration. Your money, your choice.
Climbed some stairs, aged five
‘Here we are then. Choose your rooms.’
Out of breath
Operation begins without me
Startled to see my brother kick into action
Eyes wide, running about, then
‘Yes, I want this room.’
‘Oh, I thought that would be Rowan’s room.’ her voice small
Uniformed boy looks out to
Rustling willows in the long garden
‘But don’t you want the bigger room?’
Defences up, he insists, then turns
‘Rowan, look, you are getting the better room.’
Oh, this doesn’t feel like choosing
Oh, I thought I was asked to choose
Many times I comforted myself
She once wanted that view for me.
On a ‘999’ re-enactment
I’m waiting for the best bit
Little to be certain of
But here come the foil blankets.
Look the people are found – cold, shivering
Alive! Quickly wrapped in their silver sheets
Next stop the hospital
Keep watching and we might see it again
Every moment given radiance by my hope for
The clearest kind of rescue. Wishing
Someday I could watch, wrapped up in my own silver sheet.
It’s multitude of thin, wooden bars
Retaining an unoccupied
‘Can we have a bird?’
All against the idea
Good. Tweety Pie stays on TV
Emptiness is for our cage.
Licking the papers edge,
I’m reminded of a man,
Questioning without wanting to know
Underneath his intellect
It’s something to do
Copied the idea,
Each to his own.
Respect divorced from like,
Obviously good to other
Less kind now.
I’m ignored, very well
Not a new thing
Ghost of my past self
Pleasing, but the brand is wrong.
Actually I never liked liquorice
Problems with Allsorts, even dissected
Eat everything else though.
Realised I like it
Perhaps her mother made a mistake
Understanding not the power of
Royal purple velvet
Purring around the girl’s legs.
Loneliness made good by
Every ripple hugging her
Very purple like a felt tip pen
Eating into paper.
Laughing with a Groovy Chick cartoon
‘Velvet too, my friend?’
Even flared like hers
The 3.D girl notes.
Lamenting like her father, she shouldn’t be
Grown up fabric might mean nothing
Go after the question dogs.
It’s guiltless, the velvet
Not her choice
Smile and the games up.