Draught In The Passage

Draught In The Passage

I understand you sometimes have to wait

Because they’re not yet ready

The nurses and the doctors

Who must assemble what they need

The sterile instruments

And fill out all the paperwork

Before they can take a look at you

But why must I sit or stand

Out here in the corridor

Amid the antiseptic smells

And the wheeling of trolleys

The cool air creeping underneath

The flimsy floral curtain

Which hangs between me and the world

My rustling paper gown

Flapping open at the rear

To allow them easy access

To all my private parts?

There’s no dignity dressed like this

Procedure-ready

Prepped and medicated

No privacy when I move

Naked within my wrapper

Exposed to all and sundry

Who might observe me from behind

And gaze in silent wonder

At what I might be hiding

The goose-bumps growing bigger

From the anticipation

The suspense of waiting

But mostly from the draught

That blows into the passage

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

The Shedding Of Skins

The Shedding of Skins

And what of the future

And a life that differs from yesteryear?

To cast off old restrictions

The tightness of being

The shallow breathing

That chokes and throttles

To peel away the papery epidermis

A mere shadow of what once was

And things that went before

The thin constriction of many years

An outgrown palimpsest

A dry and crispy cracking

Of empty outer skin

To leave behind

Without a single thought

The rough leavings

And abandoned bindings

Simple and superfluous

And to emerge renewed

Wet, supple and slippery

Glistening smooth

A new creature escaping

Bright-featured in appearance

Yet far more changed within

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Lost

Lost

I’m sorry, but I’m too upset to talk,

I’ve had one awful helluva day -

My life has suddenly become empty,

Now that my pal, young Bob, has gone astray.

I’m going to offer a reward:

It doesn’t matter - whatever the cost,

For I’ve got to have that little chap back,

Now that he’s gone missing, now that he’s lost.

You’d probably do the same thing as me,

If you were feeling as miserable and down,

I’ll print some posters with his picture,

And pin them to poles all around town.

You see Bob could easily get lost in a crowd -

He’s just a pigeon, when all’s said and done,

But he was always my bosom companion,

And together we’d always had such fun.

As a pigeon he’s just a common breed,

Not fancy, not tumbler, nor homer.

I never thought that he might wander away,

That he’d become restless, or a roamer.

He’s a very special little bird,

Of which any man would be proud,

So I’ll give you a detailed description,

To distinguish him from the rest of the crowd.

He’s only about ten inches long,

Six inches tall and quite sweet.

He’s covered in black and grey feathers,

And he’s got dainty orange and pink feet.

He weighs just under a pound,

When he’s walking around on his deck.

There’s a special look in his beady eye,

And there’s little green hues round his neck.

His absence has left a hole in my heart -

I don’t know what I’m doing,

So your help I am wooing,

His little habits I’m ruing,

I miss his billing and cooing,

And even his constant pooing.

I need him back for my sanity -

The feeling is cutting,

My insides it’s gutting,

Hear me cursing & tutting,

I miss his beak jutting,

When he’s doing his strutting,

In his season of rutting.

I fear that he may be a target -

It hurts, but it must be confessed,

He’s quite a well-fed little bird,

And he bears a very plump breast.

He’s easily tempted by a few crumbs,

Just like the other birds in the town.

He flaps his wings quite a lot,

And his little head bobs up and down.

So please keep all your eyes peeled -

Together we can do a good job.

Mind, he could be dangerous if cornered,

So, remember, he answers to Bob.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Upon Waking

Upon Waking

Rousing slowly from a drowsing sleep

Still faint and frowsing

Morning light insinuates itself

Creeping unbidden under gummy eyelids

At the liminal edge of dawn

The last lingering strands

Of imaginings and of rambling dreams

Stretch taut like piano-wire, gently snapping

The final frayed threads of contact

With troubling night-time places

Receding, fading, disappearing

Among the jumble of tangled bedclothes

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 3rd August

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 3rd August

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       And it’s been a tremendous fortnight here in Bromham, as we come to the end of two weeks’ splendid competition in both track and field.  The closing ceremony will be held tonight in the Snug Bar of The Wounded Ferret, featuring Rollin’ “Blind-eye” Piglet on guitar, harmonica and spoons.  Bromham topped the medals’ table yet again, winning such key events as Bunched Carrot Pulling, Parsnip Wrangling, and the tricky two-man Potato Picking discipline. Star athlete this year was Insane “Boltcutter” Piglet, who easily won gold again for Entry To A Shed or Other Outbuilding.

2.       Monday the 4^th August will see solemn ceremonies at the Memorial in the High Street, as villagers mark the 100^th anniversary of the outbreak of the First Silage War, between Bromham and their avowed enemies, the International Seend And Netherstreet Enterprise (INSANE).  The war broke out when the head farmer of Seend Cleeve was knocked off his horse by two Bromham boys who had been engaged in a mangel-wurzel throwing contest.  The stray vegetable hit the farmer on the head, causing the start of a major diplomatic incident.  And the rest, as they say, is geography.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Waterworks

Waterworks

Is this what it has come down to?

To sit here with the others

In a crowded clinic waiting room

Full of failing bodies

Dotted among the rows of wipe-clean chairs

A parking lot of walking-frames and sticks

All here for the same reason

Worrying signs in their water-works

A range of plumbing problems

For the doctors to diagnose and fix

And nurses come and go

With their files and folders

Discreetly carrying urine samples

And the bladder test results

From patients in the toilets

Peeing and passing

Measuring inputs and outputs

After drinking endless cups of water

It’s a part of getting older

Politely called urology

But there’s little dignity

In such a personal problem

And little comfort

In the unbidden thought

That it might be cancer come to call

Or a breaking down of organ function

Perhaps another milestone

Towards journey’s end

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Elephant

Elephant

Flapping folds of sagging skin

Of grey leathery hide

Wrinkled and well lived-in

Doused in dust, masked in mud

A time-old treatment

To bring relief from a burning sun

Hang roughly from the bulky frame

Loosely draped across the dome

Of the massive head

Swinging slowly side to side

Ears flapping, fanning

Trunk waving, prehensile

Tusks pointing, threatening

Towards the source of any danger

Eyes in shadow, thick-hooded

Liquid pools of darkness

Lashes long and thick

Black protective strands

Covering the crinkled lids

Hiding deep wells of thought

That may be windows into memory

Ancient mental pathways

Deep voices of the bulls

Sub-sonic rumbling through the bush

Grumbling stomachs

Communicating with the herd

And the browsing family group

Keeping the cows and calves close by

Gentle parental pachydermic protests

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014