Visiting my father, Kidderminster

If I wrote a poem now, it would be a peaceful one

Your hands like parchment, skin too large
In the Victorian hospital

Eyes turned in, jaundice yellow

Wisps of hair snowier than I recall

There is bristle on your chin

I have never seen that before
Shaving was your daily pride

Liquid leaks from your lips

I can't even drink a cup of tea

Oh dear, oh dear Will, you repeat

As if expressing a minor surprise

At this life, in the poor house
And your body's inexorable decline

Your talk, as ever, is of houses and schools

Am I a snob, do you think?

No dad, you are merely a man of your time
You define yourself by questioning

I know I made mistakes. I can't do anything about them

It doesn't matter, I say; so did I

You are inert, on a cage-like bed

That ripples like a lake, turned to the side
The television, an electric storm

An elephant under a blanket

Your stomach, a whale mound

To you the green wall is white, like heaven

Sometimes, you see people moving behind it
You do not know if you are awake or asleep
You are staying here tonight, aren't you

Sorry, dad, no. I saw you, that night, reaching through the wall

He was nice, my father, James Leslie

Thanks for telling me. It's a bit late now
You never explained his story

You didn't meet him, did you

No, he died before I was born

You showed me his house. The stump of the cedar

That he planted, cut to the ground
He was the mayor of his town, a substantial man

We saw his garden, where chickens scratched

The privet hedge encircling his world

That was the life you seemed to want

The hedge, the tree, the detached house

The neat certainties of a small town

Sometimes, you achieved them. But you moved
Always, to start again – afraid to succeed

Was it merely to frustrate your mother's wishes?

She was a snob, I think. You refused
To acknowledge her, you were merely dutiful
But still, you could have been happier

Another hospital. Tea dribbling from your mouth