Here in this hospital bed,
I forage for firewood,
stooped, like one of the elders,
among the boulders,
dusty big toes calloused
where my sandals work loose.
I am here to sacrifice
a childhood. It is the price,
the pyre that death commands.
So with these tremulous hands,
I arrange my memory hoard:
toy soldiers on skateboards,
jigsaw pieces
like tortoises,
flat new-born terrapins,
like a slew of leaves the wind blew in,
a grey prep-school dressing gown,
too big, a hand-me-down,
braided, like the fugue of a plait,
a Gunn and Moore cricket bat
like a banana, carved,
an elegant curve
of yellow
willow,
dried blood
from a nose bleed,
Cadbury’s buttons, dark on the floor,
my pet rabbit’s demure ears,
soothed and smoothed until
they’re soft as a leather finger stall.
No sign now of the ram I sought,
its uncoiled mainspring caught
in a bush of thorns,
rear hoof lifted to free its horns.
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This article appears in the 07 Mar 2018 issue of the New Statesman, The new cold war
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