The Pot Plant

She's my age,
And she's dying.
Her sister says she needs,
"Forty leaves a day,
But fresh."
Neither of us knows the growing cycle,
Of the magic plant.
We never bothered with that shit when we were young.
They are buying seeds,
Wrapped in an American magazine,
Off the internet.

I said I would phone a friend.
I did.
Our conversation was shrouded in inference.
"  A serious pharmaceutical matter,
Requiring fresh herbaceous material,
Perhaps seedlings rather than seed.
Require assistance with cultivation, care and maximising yield,
Longevity of the plant."
Perhaps not such a big issue.

He'll catch me Thursday.

Third

They do go in threes,
The matriarch, the retired farmer and now the mechanic.
I was secretly hoping that he wouldn't make the Trifecta.
But he went at last.

When I was twenty two,
Young, eager,
And naïve.
I felt his gruff exterior abrade.
But I did not know his humour then.

I have been travelling the vital years of my life,
Marriage, children, maturity.
And he has been a constant.
Smiling knowingly,
Each time my car met with an unexpected mishap.
"You do realise that these things need oil."

A Catholic, dad seven times,
He fuelled my car and enjoyed my kids,
Tapping at the glass, smiling or engaging them in chat.

He told me once that he had raised those garage doors,
Every working day of his life since he was fourteen.
His son, third generation has recently updated them.
No need to put on the gloves and pull hard on the chain,
The new blue doors roll-up easily.

In hindsight,
It seems an unfortunate omen.




 

They go in Threes

People become worried,
The elderly and ill.
And I'm sure their families too.
They listen for the whine of the ambulance.
They note too, the coldest, darkest nights.
Keep eyes open,
For the regularity of people's public habits.
Check up on people living alone.
In this town it is noted when,
Two funeral notices are placed in succession,
On the front door of the General Store.
Because this town has a macabre habit....

Of losing its residents in threes.

Passing of a Matriarch

Of pioneering stock,
She was ready to go.
Outliving most of her cohort,
She was increasingly disappointed,
To lose each witness to her life.
Independent and free to choose,
The tumour in her stomach,
Prompted her decision.
So she gave up the will,
And resigned to morphia.
Weather fitting to mark the passing of a matriarch,
Cold and bleak,
The mourners huddled together,
Overflowing from the Catholic Church.

When to let go

My little goat is sick.
We have tried this and that,
Medicine and care,
And more medicine.
Sometimes we think she rallies.
Her appetite improves.
And she gets herself up on two of her legs.
But then she goes down again.
You hear her pathetic bleats.
She is lying uncomfortably.
And she seems too weak to get up.
We prop her up on fresh hay,
With food and water close.\,
And she still has her appetite.
How long do we go on like this?
When to let go?