Poetry

To My Mum’s Favourite Client, Now Deceased

With one hand grasping tight the telephone,
She would tug your wrist, wait for you to wake
And mouth, ‘the python won’t leave me alone.’
 
So scared, but the Social couldn’t condone
What she threw at you to make your jaw ache,
Unstopped by hands grasping for the telephone.
 
And now she’s in a care home to atone,
Unseen by son or rain – just pills to take.
She knows the python won’t leave her. Alone
 
You sit slumped for hours, the Beeb and hailstones
Preventing silence, watching your body quake,
Those hands can’t grasp hold of the telephone
 
When articulated muscle tracks your backbone
To crack a sigh from ribs that will not break.
It’s come; the python won’t leave you alone.
 
Maybe you hear a scythe grate the whetstone,
Accepting that DNR. Do you smile, shake
With a hand that couldn’t grasp a telephone
And mouth, ‘the python won’t leave me alone’?

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