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Flying dreams
My father sits Half-mast in his wheelchair Washed and brushed by Nurse-aid Thing Plays bingo with Alzheimic Jim And plots out his escape He could skip away, like he used to do Down hot tar streets in Sunday shoes Dancing too… was it yesterday? With Signorina Tina B In a War-time town in Tuscanny (Her heartbeat like a half-tamed bird against his regimental serge) Or skating… there was no stopping him! Fearless as his steel-tipped blades On ice both thick and thin My father sits, Canted in his wheel chair And tilts his head to catch the sighs The ebb and flow of life’s cruel tides That sucked him from the slapdash sea And left him on some barren strand Playing dominos with Dementia Dan Within his bowed and snow-capped head A thousand plans are laid Tickets booked, Passports stamped, Luggage packed and weighed A walker – yes – a three-wheeled job with a basket for your smalls Or a good stick with a rubber tip Or fifteen hours in the Merc (fill ’er up and check the tyres) - he’s done it all before Wheels… how he dreams of wheels Wheels on walkers, wheelchairs, trains On get-away cars and take-off planes But his eyes (fixed on the click-clack boards In some Arrivals and Departures hall) Overlook one fatal flaw: Those shipwrecked at sea (Stranded by the fated trigonometry Of life and time and flesh) Need a boat. Wheels will not do at all… My father sits Marooned in his wheel chair Bibbed and spooned his custard pear By Whats-her-name from Elder Care And dreams of his escape. © Bridget Pitt |
