Giles Dawney is a writer and GP in Leominster, Herefordshire. UK, His web page is www.gilesdawnay.com
He hit me like a frying pan in the face,
the story of his mother and father
doing the same. Tough muscles coiled
ready for the next predator, small eyes
but quick. Thinning arms awash with story,
meaningful pain inked a once strong bulk.
Can’t sleep unless I’ve had a skinful
his ruddy face flickers. Oscillating fast
between the big man not allowed to cry
and the little boy who chose to survive.
Me dad was an angry boozer, fist marks
through most of the walls. So unsafe
me brother felt, he preferred to steal cars.
Prison seems safer than going back home
he loved to say. And taking the medications?
Feeling so low, must be the new meds Doc.
Since the heart attack Doc, they’ve slowed
me right down. Must be the meds, must be.
Deputy Editor’s note: The above poem, whilst shaped by the author’s experiences does not relate to any particular patient, living or deceased
