Fracture

stained glass mural at Raigmore Hospital, Inverness.
Photo by the author

“I seem to myself, as in a dream,
An accidental guest in this dreadful body.”
By Anna Akhmatova

I took this photo yesterday at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness where I’ve been incarcerated for several days after breaking my thigh bone and having surgery. The femur is the body’s largest bone.  During the op they inserted a titanium plate and screws.  There’s no point going on at length about the pain I’m in and the shocking inadequacy of the British Health Service which treats disabled patients as third class.  But I will have plenty more to say when I return to normal life and internet.

This stained glass mural is situated in the main entrance corridor of the hospital. One of the few good things here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Hollywood Cat

We are all born to die but for me
it’s my sole purpose. Survival
to the grand finale is impossible.

You can barely call it a walk-on part.
I spend the first act cute but vulnerable,
reclining on the designer sofa and a perfect

enhancement of the minimalist set.
Then, suddenly
I am catapulted from the balcony

of a high-rise apartment, so unseemly
and messing up my hair.
In my last scene I’m Jackson Pollocked

on the sidewalk, a splattered composition
in red, black and pink.  You hear the wail
of violins. It’s a shocking tear

-jerker moment, murder by my lady’s
sweet-talking lover and how else
would you know he is really a serial killer?

There will be no happily ever after.
But I still have my American dream of success,
last-minute rescue by a handsome tabby abseiling

down the wall and grabbing me as I fall.
After sunset we will wander through Central Park,
lapping lattes and gazing up at the stars.

 

 

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Image created by the author

 

The Road

buckles and bends
a bandage of rain
-bows shadowing
the shore. The sea watches,
murmurs peace man
or cries life sucks!
One after the other
they come seeking;
white camper vans
celebratory as iced
party cakes sprinkled
with cycles, paddles,
canoes, fishing tackle,
picnic hampers crammed
with yummy goodies;
coachloads of pixelated
tourists, heads turning
in syncopated rhythm,
dead-lined couriers
weary in uniform
Ford Transits; tinted salesmen
swaying on hangers
in Vauxhall Astras.
The sea watches,
curious in turquoise
or flirty with plutonium frills.
Always too cold for swimming
beyond the no-man’s
land scarred with ruins
and new builds.
One after the other;
the vintage Harleys,
the butt naked
End-to Enders,
the goggling Euros,
the English salt
and vinegar families
all seeking the lights
of John o’Groats.

 

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Painting (acrylic on canvas) by the author