Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

December 23, 6:55 a.m.
the phone
early – almost inappropriate
it will family or
wrong number. Wrong.
It is the Blood Service
could I donate today – yes
can I come in as early as possible – yes.
On arrival, no waiting, instantly processed – bustle
I ask
the blood will be screened immediately
then flown to a provincial city.

Three months later
another donation.
On the noticeboard, centre and proud
pasted on brown butchers paper
a cutting
from a heartland newspaper
chronicling the backstage of drama – logistics.

An urgent need for blood
a young mother, critically ill
an aircraft supplied without charge
express analysis by laboratory staff
12 donors
strangers all, to the recipient
a happy ending.
Across the bottom scrawled in children’s crayon
‘thank you for saving our mummy’s life.’

Children,
such wonderful promulgators of misconception
and mispronunciation.
A friend’s young son once told me
they had a boy puppy –
that it was written underneath
because daddy had turned it upside down …. then told him.
Buzz, the way of buzzer, Aldrin
would have been plain old Edwin,
if his sister had been able to pronounce brother.

And I grew up thinking Christmas carol grandma knocked down a reindeer
because
in our part of town people kept saying, old Mrs Derbyshire should stop driving,
she’s going to knock someone down.

I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened if our grandma
had knocked down a reindeer – or anything
and the police been summoned.
When she was 70 my father urged her to take the physical
required to keep her driving licence.
She deemed it not necessary
he persisted.
Ping-pong for 10 minutes
my father stated she would lose her licence to drive –
“they’ll take it from you”
“No they can’t,
yes they can!”

“No they can’t – I haven’t got one.” And never had.
Whenever grandma was driving and saw a policeman
she waved cheerfully to them,
often they smiled
and waved back.
She was still driving when she died aged 83 –
still without a licence.

“ Olwyn,”
an old-fashioned name, from another time
formal and proper – an old aunt
It is. And was.
My father’s sister
the last of the women who never went to church
or anywhere,
without hat and gloves.

She had no children
or whim
disciplined in thought, appearance and diet,
she would have declined the Garden of Eden apple.
Still,
she requested of my mother
ideas for children’s Christmas treats
all suggestions were thought ….. “ not very special
something they like – just for Christmas.”

Soft drinks said my mother
phosphorescent sparkle of sugar and colour
yet to be a commodity
more than expensive – extravagant
dreamed of by five children
except
between Boxing Day and New Year
every night, one per night
every year of childhood.
Only at Christmas,
only from Olwyn.