Red To Black

Red to Black

Pink? Pinkish! The first flush of youth on the face at the gate. Who? Pat Bouwer. Then she’s maturer And peach is the more appropriate word. Whilst Red and Black are sep-a-rate. A life-time of years One of love not tears. When out of the blue There’s a transitional cell. Bottom line? Please tell Cut to the chase. Cut! Cut? Cut! The knife excises the renal invader and its cancerous bower. (Oh my Pat, it’s a fearful pun.) One organ is gone Still with poisons and rays they smack her in case. Then hope flares up like a flame But the crab bites deep And begins to creep Ever on, and silently on, like a veritable ghoul. Peach fades to pallor and blanches like powder the beautiful face. Now days are Black And the western horizon is increasingly Red. But Red inside her is read as life. Something to grasp and hold very tight Albeit only a straw. Then in a twinkling Red switches to Black And the dreaded Black blood gushes upward and out Filling the dish she, yes she, holds alone in her hands. A stainless-steel dish with a renal shape. What bitter irony is that? Worse still, she’s all alone; A nurse without a nurse. The ultimate curse. What’s a vocation it’s only a ‘jop’ In any event the bell does n’t ring. ‘Bloken ?’ Oh yes it certainly is. 1

So move out, move out to where there’s love, Care, and compassion but void of hope. Now it’s gentle Black hands and Red epaulettes. Calm are the days and gentle the nights As warmly wrapped in her morphine cocoon She wanders content with ghosts of her past. And the Black is contained as she slips gently away But there is time for a final whispered exchange And a tender last brush of our lips “I love you lots”, “And I love you too.” Then with a sigh and smile she is gone As one of her own softly squeezes her hand. Now Black is the hole that is left behind And Red is the grief consuming my mind.

Keith Beavon 14:ix:2006

2