Friday 25 February 2022


 I was not happy with my last post. The poem was half formed. Here is a redraft.

lung wrecked in the wing back chair

my father was marooned in his house

he rewatched the programmes

he did not like the first time round

told me that there was a certain

safety in knowing what comes next

that brief whisper of exhalation

follows each creaking inhalation

his neural pathways began to short circuit

left in him sleeping an assisted sleep

until it is time to cast off

to sail into the deep

Some poems write themselves, others, like this one, require more work. I am happier with this version. No idea for a title. I think it should be something about a pause or a new cycle, but that would explain the poem before it is read...

Here is Louis Armstrong and Earl Hines with Weather Bird. This tune never fails to raise my spirits when I hear it.

Until next time.

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