I never had flu till I had turned 45,

not true flu, I had woken early one morning

whilst I was back packing through rural Normandy

with my head resting in a

dirty storm formed puddle

and I know I probably looked awful for about a week

and the thoughts of unfulfilled dreams

of making peace in my time across the Channel

brought to a premature and early end.

Now every week I seem to be fighting back infection,

the assault on the body, the throat, the eyes,

the ribs that remained cracked from an accident

on a railway train in Exeter, the sheer bliss

of pain that the spine provides;

all used to be solved with whisky,

my golden brown,

I would happily digest till the bottle was dry

because it was the finest medicine

one that I could control

but in turn would use my tongue and my brain

like a wooden ventriloquist doll had mated

with a marionette, all in a word and my words

became nothing, manipulated by a desire

that never was mine…

now I go down

with every infection

that comes my way

and the golden brown

liquid isn’t there to attach its strings

as it keeps me from feeling ill.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016