Thirteen onwards, mother’s and my Jeremy Kyle life
played out in the bungalow tiny as battery hen cages,
where we pecked and pecked at old wounds.
Prison-sprung by her death at twenty-nine,
I complete unfinished business learning to drive, further
previously dismissed as 'You’re not up to it darling'.
Then teaching's bell bound days.
School’s call of duty meant marking into early hours,
Sundays devoted to planning, holidays up-skilling for
new curriculum, exam board, schemes of work…
so, hobbies became rusted, head shaken at invitations.
Dreg-end of 40s, my career arrested by two adamant
health conditions that like jailers held me under house arrest.
Finally shinnied through medication’s partially-opened door
to find school permanently out for summer.
Took up a friend’s bet to internet date and met you
who threw me the keys to travel, concerts, exhibitions,
and in my 50s, I have become experience-greedy
wanting more, more, more…
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Fiona Sinclair
would be pleased to hear them.