FridayIIII August

The Stroke

The stroke struck:
In the upstairs granny flat kitchen.
On age-brittle plastic tiles.
Between the gloss white kitchen wall and enamelled cooker.
Under a pan waiting to heat an egg.

Straining to voice angry panic.
Immobile muscles in mute motion.
Silent words ricochet as impotent bullets.

Wondering what your rolling eyes really can take in.
Knowing at times you know.
The cut outs Emma brought propped side by side,
The garage bouquet in a cut-glass NHS vase,
Or passing sky through the ward window?

When the supermarket aisles changed
You’d stamp and feel unhinged.
Only because Peggy was waiting, home alone.
When the waitress came you gave her the Spanish inquisition,
on the state of the restaurant kitchen.
Only because you wanted the veg to be just right.
When you looked at your family your eyes were lost in love.
You once said: ‘I don’t care what you do as long as you do it with pride.’
At the time that made everything seem alright.

Now straggling tears make me weep.
Your aching yawns of speech.
Wiping slimy white from your lips
Holding tight to your large hand.
I think of all the pride.
Of you with pride.