Birthday Visit

Above us that sky, clouds lour down,
a hint of wind or rain in their forming;
at the field's edge you move as if hurt
by the leafless trees' slow movements.

There is nothing I can do as I walk
towards you wary of tempests,
those shrill warnings that envelope;
like you I've spotted the ambulance.

Later you'll tell me that it's the weather
that makes you break out to run
barefooted into the particular light,
homing in on a specific spot in the trees.

We've been here before near this beech,
its twisted bole and shattered branches
proof to its survival against many storms,
soon its endurance will be crowned by leaves.

My Father's Coin Collection

If there had been some big disease,
known symptoms, something to fight
perhaps you could have pulled through
you'd survived such scares before;

but this was just the dry accumulation
of all the heavy years' encumbrance.
The sadness was you'd kept your mind
the long and short term memories all there,

so when I turned from your antique,
shrunken shape, it was still you
that reminisced, recalling names,
places and times long derelict for me.

The nurses, knowing that you were finished,
said nothing, encouraged even;
whilst you were sure that if you could only
walk once more, unaided, they'd let you home.

Was that our mistake?  The home
we found for you, where we believed
you safe; ground floor flat, round-the -clock
warden cover, your panic buttons.

You hated it, even though the chap 
in the next-door flat had served
in your old squadron; 'no good,
bloody old people,' you grumbled

refusing to join the regimented groups
in the pleasant gardens for tea
and home-made cakes.  You had the TV 
for the racing, coin collection, books.

How many times did I rush to your side
after another 'he can't last the night' call
to find you far away, or sleeping?
'He's in a coma now, he won't pull out.'

Three times you did, you old ruffian
and with your mind entire;
then you stopped eating, started to shrink,
we brought you your favourites in.

The last days hand-feeding cheese,
you liked Cheddar that burnt the mouth;
then just ice-cream, weak tea
until there was nothing left of you.

Now I hold your coins knowing that
your arthritic fingers fingered them
turning them over, researching their origin;
the good ones gone, I hope you sold them

for some clandestine pleasures; but suspect
your fear of debt meant they went to
pay routine bills.  One or two you could
not identify, always believed them valuable.

You'd hold it, wafer thin and say 'silver,
short cross, very rare.' You died believing this.
More practical I took it to the museum they
identified it as 'French 14th Century;

you might get £50 for it at auction'
I turn it over, make out the stubby cross
of your great hope and wonder
whether to sell and finalise my loss.

Terminus

All the predictions were true
this is an appalling place,
a landscape swept clean of hope,
without purpose, nor shape.

The fields unhealthy and dark,
their edges all broken and pocked
rank home to nettles and dock,
a persistent whine in the trees.

We all come to this place at some time,
by appointment, or by too casual a choice,
few will cherish its grief,
nor enjoy its careless embrace.

Whether from sickbed or cliff,
or the clattering rush of a train,
a length of hose and a car,
the clinical way of the gun.

All that's required is choice,
to bring us here when we need,
it's just the sound of a voice;
unwanted, but tempting indeed.