Play Centre

(In Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, London)

His mother had done her best to keep his mind
on the painting they’d started together,
but his pallid nostrils twitched, lifted up,
sensed something in the air, or on my face.

Scuttling through a gap in the giggling fence
of other children huddled round the hutch,
he found it easy to slip the catch, and run,
his head hidden by the long tall grass,
which she had kept on saying should be green,
to the rabbit-hole, where he’d not be caught.

Clawing down the apple-crumble tunnel,
he wasn’t sorry he’d screamed this morning
as she tried to cut his sharp bunny-nails.
The burrow had that nest-of-arms smell like
when she was warm-straw in her happy-dress.

No, he didn’t envy Ben’s thick coat of fur:
it was good for burying your face in
and for drying your cheeks while your fingers
gurgled in the soft-water of his floppy ears,
till the owl-ringed weariness floated from your eyes,
gliding down into Ben’s dark vigil of honesty:
animal truth that wouldn’t blink or look away,
a sky-darkness you could sleep in now, soft-centred
like the kangaroo-pocket your bedroom used to be.

‘Come on, darling.’ He could see his Daddy’s
twinkling stars much more clearly now,
‘Come on, love,’ all around him, bright,
like all the nicest smiles he’d ever known.
‘l want to stay with Ben.’
‘It’s time to go,
Daddy will look after your painting.’
His mother lifted him up, stroked his hairless head.
‘The nice doctor’s waiting,
Ben will still be here next time.’

And another time …. But this time,
going home, clawing up the apple-crumble tunnel
into the bright starry night outside,

we blinked, looked away, and gently cried.

.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

A really poignant piece of writing. Great Ormond Street, a hospital for really sick chikdren. One of our own grandchildren at six weeks was transferred there for life saving treatment. It was a terrible time, but fortunately he pulled through. Your lines pick up on how difficult it for family members to be able to deal with this situation. Many children survive but some don't. Full of admiration for their work, we support their charity and we are in awe of their dedicated staff. If this poem is based on fact, it must have been painful to write.

All good wishes

Chris

[Gerald Parker]

Yes, it's based on fact. Our daughter was 11 in 1985 when she contracted Lymphoblasic Lymphoma. the treatment was the same as for Leukaemia and lasted three years. I wrote this and three other poems to read at a parents support group. They have all been published in Envoi poetry magazine. Thanks for reading and commenting.

[Chris Shaw]

It is fabulous that you have used your poetry in a support group for parents and that your poems have been published. I hope your daughter has recovered well from her ordeal.

Chris

[Gerald Parker]

Yes, she survived, went to university, had two children.

[Chris Shaw]

So good to hear. A real success story.