Paper Snowflakes (rev 5 tweaked)
Posted: Sat Jun 05, 2021 11:05 pm
Paper Snowflakes (revision 5 tweaked)
We enter the pod and peer, unmasked,
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one two, one two.
We wait like prison visitors, hands clenched
and rollercoaster stomachs. A faux tree
twinkles through the division, struggling
to create a festive ambiance. Your distant hum
approaches -the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker.
Disbelief stiffens your face; it has been
nine months, locked down with no walks,
music therapy or Sunday dinners at home.
Dad and I chit chat, trying to quell the silence,
your thoughts unspoken, wondering
why we don’t whisk you away home.
The carer joins in, recalls how Bohemian
Rhapsody always captures you, the Halloween
lights that still swirl on your bedroom ceiling and
the last minute scramble to snip hippie locks.
We all relax when you sit down, face
slackening into a smile, your fingers
attempt to mirror mine through the screen.
Too soon it’s - Goodbye love, I promise
we’ll see you very soon, New Year’s day.
We leave reception, masks on, clutching
a card of you giggling in a Santa hat
and covered with your scribbled kisses.
Knowing we’ll miss seeing you rip
open our sack of presents, reindeer
leaping across your shirt, our Boxing Day
stroll together in Perry Hall Park
and your avalanche of paper snowflakes.
I feel a blizzard inside me …
… and can’t forget
how you turned to shuffle out,
my high five left hanging at the screen.
-------------------------------------
Ending was -
Unable to watch you rip open our sack
of presents, reindeer leaping
across your shirt. Knowing we’ll miss
our Boxing Day stroll in the park
and your avalanche of paper snowflakes,
I feel a blizzard inside me …
remembering how you turned
to shuffle out, my high five
left hanging at the screen.
----------------------------------------------------
Paper Snowflakes (revision 4)
We enter the pod and peer, unmasked,
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one two, one two.
We wait like prison visitors, hands clenched
and roll a coaster stomachs. A faux tree
twinkles through the division, struggling
to create a festive ambiance. A distant hum
approaches -the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker.
Disbelief stiffens your face; it has been
nine months, locked down with no walks,
music therapy or Sunday dinners at home.
Dad and I chatter, your replies unspoken,
wondering why we don’t whisk you away home.
All unwind when you perch, face slackening
into a smile, fingers mirror mine through
the partition. The carer recalls how Bohemian
Rhapsody always captures you, the Halloween
lights swirling on your bedroom ceiling and
a last-minute scramble to snip hippie locks.
Too soon it’s - Goodbye love, I promise
we’ll see you very soon, New Year’s day.
We leave reception, masks on, clutching
a card of you giggling in a Santa hat
covered with your scribbled kisses.
Unable to watch you rip open our sack
of presents, reindeer leaping across
your shirt – knowing we’ll miss our Boxing
Day stroll in the park and your usual
avalanche of paper snowflakes,
I feel a blizzard inside me - remember
how you turned to shuffle out
my high five left hanging at the screen.
-----------------------------------------------
Paper Snowflakes
We enter the pod and peer, unmasked,
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one, two … three.
We wait like prison visitors, hands clenched
and roll a coaster stomachs. A faux tree
twinkles through the division, struggling
to create a festive ambiance. A distant hum
approaches - the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker. Disbelief
stiffens your face; it has been nine months.
You appear older, chubby – locked down
with no exercise, no music therapy
or summer picnics. Dad and I chatter,
your replies unspoken, wondering why
we don’t whisk you away home.
All unwind when you perch, face slackening
into a smile, fingers mirror mine through
the partition. The carer recalls how Bohemian
Rhapsody always captures you, the Halloween
lights swirling on your bedroom ceiling
and a last-minute scramble to snip hippie locks.
Too soon it’s - Goodbye love, we’ll see you soon,
New Year’s day - my high five at the screen
is left hanging as you turn to shuffle out.
I feel a blizzard inside me.
Masks on, we leave reception clutching
a basket stuffed with sweets you’d helped
to stir and bake, a picture of you giggling
in a Santa hat on a card covered with scribbled
kisses. Unable to watch you unwrap
our sack of presents, reindeer leaping
across your shirt – we long for your usual
avalanche of paper snowflakes.
-----------------------------------
First Christmas without You
Unmasked, we enter the pod and peer
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one, two, three.
Like prison visitors, we wait silently with
roll a coaster stomachs. In the opposite corner
a faux tree twinkles, struggling to create
a festive ambiance. A distant hum
approaches - the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker. Disbelief
shadows your face; it has been nine
months. You look older, plumper - locked
away from long walks. Dad and I chatter
to your unspoken replies. You wonder why
we don’t whisk you away home. All relax
as you perch, face slackening into a smile,
fingers mirror mine through the partition.
The carer recalls your love for Queen’s
Bohemian Rhapsody, the Halloween lights
swirling on your bedroom ceiling and
a last-minute scramble to prune hippie locks
Too soon its - Goodbye love
until New Year - my high five at the screen
left hanging. I feel a blizzard inside me.
Masks on at reception gifts exchange -
a basket stuffed with sweets you’d helped
to stir and bake, your giggling image with
Santa hat on a card with scribbled kisses.
You will unwrap our sack of presents when
reindeer leap across your shirt, as we ache
for an avalanche of your paper snowflakes.
-----------------------------------
Visiting Jason 2020
Hesitant, we enter the pod, peering
through its large window division,
a microphone our interlink.
A tree twinkles on the other side
lifting the sober ambiance. Silently
we wait, jumpy as prison visitors.
A distant hum approaches until
the door clunks open and you
amble in with a carer. Disbelief
shadows your face; it has been nine
months. We chat to unspoken replies -
your lips transform into a smile
as you perch, fingers mirroring mine
through the partition.
The carer reports your love
for a Queen CD, the Halloween lights
on your bedroom ceiling, and yesterday’s
hurried haircut.
Too soon its - Goodbye love
until New Year - my high five
at the screen left hanging.
Masks on at reception I hand over
our sack of gifts for you to unwrap
when reindeers leap
across the shirt left to wear
on your first Christmas
away from home.
---------------------------------------------------------
Christmas Visiting 2020
Silently we wait in the pod,
expectancy quivering, watch
for the door to swing open.
A Christmas tree twinkles through
the screen, lifting the ambiance
from prison-like visiting.
His hum is nearing, anticipation
bursts as the door clunks open.
Jason sidles in with his carer.
Wide-eyed, after nine months
he sees us again; we chat
to his mute replies.
A smile filters through, he sits,
fingers try to touch mine
through the window.
Time passes too quickly,
Goodbye love until New Year
a high five at the perspex
meets with no response.
Masked up at reception
a sack of gifts offered
and reindeers leap across
a shirt to wear on his first
Christmas away from home.
We enter the pod and peer, unmasked,
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one two, one two.
We wait like prison visitors, hands clenched
and rollercoaster stomachs. A faux tree
twinkles through the division, struggling
to create a festive ambiance. Your distant hum
approaches -the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker.
Disbelief stiffens your face; it has been
nine months, locked down with no walks,
music therapy or Sunday dinners at home.
Dad and I chit chat, trying to quell the silence,
your thoughts unspoken, wondering
why we don’t whisk you away home.
The carer joins in, recalls how Bohemian
Rhapsody always captures you, the Halloween
lights that still swirl on your bedroom ceiling and
the last minute scramble to snip hippie locks.
We all relax when you sit down, face
slackening into a smile, your fingers
attempt to mirror mine through the screen.
Too soon it’s - Goodbye love, I promise
we’ll see you very soon, New Year’s day.
We leave reception, masks on, clutching
a card of you giggling in a Santa hat
and covered with your scribbled kisses.
Knowing we’ll miss seeing you rip
open our sack of presents, reindeer
leaping across your shirt, our Boxing Day
stroll together in Perry Hall Park
and your avalanche of paper snowflakes.
I feel a blizzard inside me …
… and can’t forget
how you turned to shuffle out,
my high five left hanging at the screen.
-------------------------------------
Ending was -
Unable to watch you rip open our sack
of presents, reindeer leaping
across your shirt. Knowing we’ll miss
our Boxing Day stroll in the park
and your avalanche of paper snowflakes,
I feel a blizzard inside me …
remembering how you turned
to shuffle out, my high five
left hanging at the screen.
----------------------------------------------------
Paper Snowflakes (revision 4)
We enter the pod and peer, unmasked,
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one two, one two.
We wait like prison visitors, hands clenched
and roll a coaster stomachs. A faux tree
twinkles through the division, struggling
to create a festive ambiance. A distant hum
approaches -the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker.
Disbelief stiffens your face; it has been
nine months, locked down with no walks,
music therapy or Sunday dinners at home.
Dad and I chatter, your replies unspoken,
wondering why we don’t whisk you away home.
All unwind when you perch, face slackening
into a smile, fingers mirror mine through
the partition. The carer recalls how Bohemian
Rhapsody always captures you, the Halloween
lights swirling on your bedroom ceiling and
a last-minute scramble to snip hippie locks.
Too soon it’s - Goodbye love, I promise
we’ll see you very soon, New Year’s day.
We leave reception, masks on, clutching
a card of you giggling in a Santa hat
covered with your scribbled kisses.
Unable to watch you rip open our sack
of presents, reindeer leaping across
your shirt – knowing we’ll miss our Boxing
Day stroll in the park and your usual
avalanche of paper snowflakes,
I feel a blizzard inside me - remember
how you turned to shuffle out
my high five left hanging at the screen.
-----------------------------------------------
Paper Snowflakes
We enter the pod and peer, unmasked,
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one, two … three.
We wait like prison visitors, hands clenched
and roll a coaster stomachs. A faux tree
twinkles through the division, struggling
to create a festive ambiance. A distant hum
approaches - the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker. Disbelief
stiffens your face; it has been nine months.
You appear older, chubby – locked down
with no exercise, no music therapy
or summer picnics. Dad and I chatter,
your replies unspoken, wondering why
we don’t whisk you away home.
All unwind when you perch, face slackening
into a smile, fingers mirror mine through
the partition. The carer recalls how Bohemian
Rhapsody always captures you, the Halloween
lights swirling on your bedroom ceiling
and a last-minute scramble to snip hippie locks.
Too soon it’s - Goodbye love, we’ll see you soon,
New Year’s day - my high five at the screen
is left hanging as you turn to shuffle out.
I feel a blizzard inside me.
Masks on, we leave reception clutching
a basket stuffed with sweets you’d helped
to stir and bake, a picture of you giggling
in a Santa hat on a card covered with scribbled
kisses. Unable to watch you unwrap
our sack of presents, reindeer leaping
across your shirt – we long for your usual
avalanche of paper snowflakes.
-----------------------------------
First Christmas without You
Unmasked, we enter the pod and peer
through its Perspex window, tap
the microphone - testing, one, two, three.
Like prison visitors, we wait silently with
roll a coaster stomachs. In the opposite corner
a faux tree twinkles, struggling to create
a festive ambiance. A distant hum
approaches - the door clunks open, you
amble in with your key worker. Disbelief
shadows your face; it has been nine
months. You look older, plumper - locked
away from long walks. Dad and I chatter
to your unspoken replies. You wonder why
we don’t whisk you away home. All relax
as you perch, face slackening into a smile,
fingers mirror mine through the partition.
The carer recalls your love for Queen’s
Bohemian Rhapsody, the Halloween lights
swirling on your bedroom ceiling and
a last-minute scramble to prune hippie locks
Too soon its - Goodbye love
until New Year - my high five at the screen
left hanging. I feel a blizzard inside me.
Masks on at reception gifts exchange -
a basket stuffed with sweets you’d helped
to stir and bake, your giggling image with
Santa hat on a card with scribbled kisses.
You will unwrap our sack of presents when
reindeer leap across your shirt, as we ache
for an avalanche of your paper snowflakes.
-----------------------------------
Visiting Jason 2020
Hesitant, we enter the pod, peering
through its large window division,
a microphone our interlink.
A tree twinkles on the other side
lifting the sober ambiance. Silently
we wait, jumpy as prison visitors.
A distant hum approaches until
the door clunks open and you
amble in with a carer. Disbelief
shadows your face; it has been nine
months. We chat to unspoken replies -
your lips transform into a smile
as you perch, fingers mirroring mine
through the partition.
The carer reports your love
for a Queen CD, the Halloween lights
on your bedroom ceiling, and yesterday’s
hurried haircut.
Too soon its - Goodbye love
until New Year - my high five
at the screen left hanging.
Masks on at reception I hand over
our sack of gifts for you to unwrap
when reindeers leap
across the shirt left to wear
on your first Christmas
away from home.
---------------------------------------------------------
Christmas Visiting 2020
Silently we wait in the pod,
expectancy quivering, watch
for the door to swing open.
A Christmas tree twinkles through
the screen, lifting the ambiance
from prison-like visiting.
His hum is nearing, anticipation
bursts as the door clunks open.
Jason sidles in with his carer.
Wide-eyed, after nine months
he sees us again; we chat
to his mute replies.
A smile filters through, he sits,
fingers try to touch mine
through the window.
Time passes too quickly,
Goodbye love until New Year
a high five at the perspex
meets with no response.
Masked up at reception
a sack of gifts offered
and reindeers leap across
a shirt to wear on his first
Christmas away from home.