Deathbed – New Poem (1st draft)
All they want to do
is curl into the space between
my breasts and belly,
and stay there,
contended as lambs.
Instead, they sit around me,
cross legged and twitchy,
and take notes for my poems
While one cries,
the other writes.
Daughter has cut her hair,
and has worked a lock into
a tight braid, so a part of her
can still with me when she is
cooking toast or brewing tea.
Son always leaves something
important, so he has to come back.
Really, it’s because he’s scared
I’ll be gone when he returns.
I’d love to walk out onto the road,
feel the heat of the softening tarmac
on my bare feet. Son
and Daughter tell me
this whole summer will be
a belter for good weather.
Son has lent Daughter his sleeping bag,
one Ray Mears recommend.
Daughter thinks if I have more cover
I might last a little bit longer.
At least now, now we have spent weeks
looking, listening, talking, touching
I can say we know each other.