I rarely had to push him.
Mostly he propelled himself
along the Corridors of Power,
the gleaming, neutral-coloured,
slippery waterways
of hospitals with that
special smell.
It was the closest he could get
to paddling his own canoe.
But I felt him disappearing.
Get yourself a red trilby,
something brash,
and earrings
to sharpen your face.
He chose an Australian slouch
hat of genuine kangaroo
leather and clip-on hoops – bronze,
silver or gold to suit his mood.
Even then they talked
over his head.
He scanned my face
to know if there was any hope
(although he said he hated hope)
and I could hardly bear to see,
belying all that buccaneer panache,
the slight wince in his blue eyes
at the thud of yet another disappointment.
Damaris West lives near the sea in Scotland. Her poetry has appeared widely in such publications as Snakeskin, The Lake, Dreich, Blue Unicorn, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and The Friday Poem, and has been placed in several competitions. Her debut pamphlet is due to appear next year with Yaffle Press. damariswest.site123.me