I took you for granted,
The mass of grey
That makes me rebel,
That makes me obey.

No matter
My silent partner
Present like deep waters,
A distant rumbling ignored.

Dry husks on close inspection.
Deadish, brownish black,
Plucked from petaled homes
Bagged in airless packets,
Left desiccated in a supermarket,
Their blooming potential undervalued.
No seed of resurrection, surely?
And so, this doubtful, non-starter gardener,
With nothing to lose but a pound,
Purchased and potted and planted
And watered and waited
Until the miracle of green emerged.
A determined rebirth
Sprouting from apparent death
And from the curiousity of a man
From whose soil those seeds found purchase.
Happy now is that newly-qualified gardener,
Surprised at nature's resilience,
And who declares to young and old
"Behold my Marigolds from B&M"

Your shrill sound echoes down the sickly fluorescent corridor.
I try to ignore you.
Its jauntiness jars.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket.
It bounces off the pain-bearing walls.
It exacerbates my claustrophobia.

But perhaps your music is soothing to some;
High happy notes inspiring hope of recovery
Or of a deserved restful sleep enveloping dear ones.

But I hear only the low notes.
Out of time with my quickened pulse;
A foreboding soundtrack to my deliberately slow steps.

But, I know you play for no pay.
Busking in this hospital for practice and charity.
And I know too, you do good both night and day.

For your primary instrument is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Wielded by your steady, practiced hand,
Rehearsed and well-versed in surgical concertos.

But, out of hours, your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allows flourishes and improvisations,
Best avoided during operations.

But, were you aware that for visitors like me
That the clarinet would take on a life-long significance,
Taking me back to bittersweet memories of visiting my Taidi.

Now, though, I am older and a little wiser,
My memories of him are more than just of hospital visits,
And I wonder, could I ask one thing of you?

Why no Rhapsody in Blue?

What would life be
Without that twenty-three?
No seasons cycling,
Birthing, rearing, draining and renewing.

No heralding cries of labour
Harsh lives lived and vacated
To summon the next new cry
Of life unasked but bestowed.

That such a celestial charade exists,
Governed by an arbitrary number,
Amuses and disturbs me
As we would be naught without that twenty-three.

A child assumed adults' superiority.
Hero worshipped older members of his family.
Absorbed opinions overheard over pints.
Tried them on for size at school,
As he did an Uncle's cool leather jacket
- comforting, macho and confidence-giving -
But he outgrew the jacket,
Cast aside those learnt opinions,
Tough, stubborn opinions
With rugged exteriors
Lined with seductive silken narratives
That, thankfully, perished over time.

The grip of sleep holds him tight,
He'll never know he died,
Never know he did not wake.
Such a fine line between life and death
Never knowing which might be your last breath.