Diane: in hospital and later
I would not have you prone, my dear, but up
And wiping plates, sharp-tongued, close at my side,
A kitchen critic, keen to laugh and slap
My washing-up techniques with woe betide.
Up from that narrow bed, to join lobelias
And ericas that may, we’re told, replace
Expensive box; then facing irises -
An auburn glow in cultivated space.
Dear, prone in bed is really not your bit,
For when you said “Well X is just a prat.”
Your head and shoulders helped augment the wit.
Down there they’re mute and now the wit is flat.
That was then. I wash dishes on my own
Untouched by auburn glow, the light quite flown.
