Swansea Hospital Friday.
Rain again.
"Bwrw glaw."
A damp old day in autumn.
Orange leaves all wet and shiny,
glisten in the trees and gutters.
Puddles swirl with petrol rainbows.
Those were the days
when hospitals were clean
with 'proper' nurses
who travelled to work
wearing outdoor clothes
not their uniforms.
Sulky sea,
muddy green,
throws itself on the sand
in a salty-teared tantrum.
Cars woosh past,
a hush-a-bye lullabye,
but sea cannot be consoled.
Into the world,
now I come.
Red-stained, wrinkled, crushed,
mis-shapen forceps-dented skull.
Salty tears my first expression.
But sea cannot be consoled.
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