Hung from the hook beside bedside
a pink gown of fleece mourned the loss
of wearer and princess-
rock of St Catherine’s street.
And here in the spinning soup
of ward numbers and blue tight suits,
doctors weave around the teary
in an attempt to fix the ill and weary.
How is it that Grandma, Mamma, Mum and Shirley must
ride out the tide and swells of the cancerous cells?
How is it that others go on abusing?
whilst she sits losing
the only battle incurable by battalions of needles and drips,
comfortable sheets and jargon scripts
of scribbled odes, named medicines by doctors pen tip.

And now, just now, right now
he walked in with eyes of hell red and tiredness
and shot to me with arms open, weak with stress.
Never will a short embrace feel like a week,
Never will a fortnight feel so bleak,
Never will Wakefield be the same
without the
rock of red bricked St Catherine’s street.