Manorlands
The valley churns up railway smog and rain
stains the constant stitch of drystone walls,
wetting lichen spots between seams of moss.
The drive winds up and round, overcast
by horse chestnut trees shedding leaves
and premature conkers in the storm.
Mum’s Mazda bounces clear across potholes in the car park
rolls to a stop. We share a quiet second.
He looks a little better, her smile doesn’t meet her eyes.
Inside, it’s warm. Beads of condensation mimic
the raindrops race down the other side
of the glass.
We take extra seats from the chapel
pass nurses chatting by the sweet stand
take another second before going in.
The bed sits Granddad up, breathing out to prop him up.
He smiles much the same as Mum did before, wincing
as the cancer breaks his back, robs his taste, his writing hand.
We skip over the bit where ask him how he is, skip ahead,
know he’s run out of polite ways to say, like shit,
Instead, he tells us something we’ve not heard before
after he was out of the war, but not the Air Force, when
he stole the Air Commodore’s car at Holme-on-Spalding Moore.
All for just a couple of pints, he said
crashed on the way back, he laughed
cracked the bloody windscreen, he coughed
top to bottom.
so I painted it peacetime blue,
hoped for the best he said
I was always lucky you see.
DRYSTONE. 