On the Run
There he goes! On skis.
All ramshackle bones & tissue-paper skin
packaged in puffer jacket, goggles
& scarf fidgeting
in the Alpine wind. My dad.
Eighty-four. Never skied
in his life. Head like a snow globe
full of hi-viz dos & doníts
from the fading instructor.
Dadís more action-packed now
than Iíve ever known. Not
wanting death to pick the cottage lock
while he snoozes
on the sofa & if he tumbles,
becomes an avalanche of himself
that comes to rest in the powdered snow,
heíll only leave his imprint
full of aches & pains. Come on death,
I can hear him say,
catch me if you can.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Simon French would be
pleased to hear them