bags of bones

bags of bones in parchment skin

he is bald, she wears a wig

to cover chemo ravaging

the wheelchair rattles market cobbles

earth spills from hardy annuals

badly balanced on her lap

‘watch out! that lorry!’

‘I ain’t blind yet, mother’

(new corneas are long overdue)

‘careful! mind the kerb!

you’re spilling me morning glories

I always said you’ll be the death of me’

‘remember when we went walking

the year before you had our Jack?’

‘Jack? I don't know any Jacks’

‘you said the hills looked blue steel grey’

‘blue, steel, grey,... hills you say?’

‘you wanted to paint them… ‘

‘paint hills? I never painted hills... '

‘you couldn't… we never went back... you had our Jack’

‘Jack?’

‘he went away… a while ago…’

a tear welled and trickled the corrugate skin

channelling from cheek to dimpled chin

‘Jack! so smart in his uniform, is he coming back?

the old man wipes his eyes,

‘any day, mother, any day…’

‘I’ll bake him a Victoria sponge’

‘he’ll love that, mother’

‘is he coming for his tea?’

‘he’ll be home soon.’