Stroke

A morning might begin like this, windows closing to light,

a punch of darkness delivered to the solar plexus of a day.

Your voice barely audible on the phone saying you’d had a fall

that you could barely move, could barely swallow.

I‘ll be right there. The long, tight grip of rain

on my heart. Six hours of thinking the worst before I reach.

Kind neighbours have shifted you to the hospital. You’re in the

ICU, tubes and wires rudely in and out of your body.

I climb the mountain of the moment. Your eyes brighten when they

spot me. Your gaze sews my fears. Daddy. Our hands cling.

Tomorrow I’ll know a numbness colder than your skin.

A flattening of all things. How will I vocalise the rising rale of pain?

Loss, a Peepul tree, will take roots inside my chest.

For years it will grow - leaf by leaf. For years the earth will feel heavier.