Growth : in memory of Hazel Entwistle Clarke
Growth
A million cells, she said,
size of a bird’s egg.
Only then are they sure,
shadow on the screen.
Used to be sex was taboo,
never breathed, except behind bike sheds.
Now it’s death, each moment
spent together precious, essential.
She limps across the lino
stirs coffee, leans to the left.
Her towering frame curves
beside a fragile crayon picture.
To Mummy, I love you.
- Cannot bear the picture.
We stay like this for months,
map phone calls, test for change.
One morning, the garden filled with June,
we break open champagne, her body scanned, clean.
She beams out from under
the straw hat which hides her scalp.
We plan adventures, meetings with old friends;
pray only her hair grows back.
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