It was just after four when I was awoken,
twenty four hours after waters had broken,
but hospital tests showed she wasn’t dilating
so the next fifteen hours were spent nervously waiting
as fingers and medicines were put inside,
removing all trace of her dignity and pride.
Painful contractions were started by a drip in her hand
so she chose an epidural which hadn’t been planned
and her face contorted with dread and fear
as the anaesthetist’s needle came near.
The midwife took notes but didn’t let us look
and we passed the time with puzzles in a crossword book
until the doctor came in with something shocking to say,
sending us for a Caesarean in the operating bay.
Under local anaesthetic she still felt the knife
so I had to leave my unborn baby and wife.
In a waiting room, alone in the dark,
watching the sun rise over an empty car park,
I paced and I stared for what felt like hours,
useless with nothing helpful in my powers,
then in came a nurse saying “Hello Dad”
and took me to meet the baby we’d had,
a mass of white blankets and a tiny head
“but she’s had a problem breathing” a doctor said.
I didn’t know if I could hold her so touched her cheek,
I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t speak.
I couldn’t be with mum or baby, they’d tell me when
so I was sent off on my own again
and relieved, anxious, happy and alone
I locked myself in the toilets to cry on my own.
Only when they let me be at my wife’s side
did I know for certain that she hadn’t died.
A tube in her nose and in obvious pain
she didn’t know about the baby so I tried to explain,
and when we were worried our daughter might feel ignored
I was allowed to go and visit her ward.
She had different blankets and a white woolly hat,
I introduced myself and we had a short chat
as the nurse helped me lift her from the small plastic bed,
holding her bum and supporting her head.
There were little white spots on her tiny nose
and she wouldn’t smile for the camera when asked to pose
but all being well she’d be with us later that day
and after a few more tests we knew she’d be OK.
The shops were bedecked before Halloween,
with glittery decorations in red, gold and green
and chocolates and biscuits in the seasonal aisle
and festive songs on speaker all the while,
boosting the royalty cheques for Wizzard and Slade
and that Band Aid song that is always played,
letting the world know it’s Christmas time
with erroneous lyrics that don’t even rhyme.
We worship a drink company promoted Santa Claus
making the church goers all sound like bores
who worry that the real meaning of Christmas is lost
while the rest of us fret about the financial cost
of the clothes, the books, the gifts that we choose,
the chocolates, the tinsel, the tree and the booze,
the price of the bird that we’re having for lunch,
the sprouts we waste and the spuds that we crunch.
And as we sit in the shadowy fairy-light glow,
watching the rain when we wanted snow
and keep in touch with those we hold dear
we wonder if this is the best time of the year.
It can be, there are no doubts,
as long as we stay clear of those nasty sprouts.
In they come, an unappealing sight,
looking for somewhere warm on a winter night,
knowing they can save on their central heating
if they turn up at this public meeting
that we’re holding to consult on our transport aim,
but they attend in search of someone to blame:
for the lights being off, their bus being late,
and potholes leaving the roads in a terrible state.
They want heavy lorries kept off the roads,
but need all the goods contained in the loads,
they to remove the crossings and humps that keep traffic calm
but still keep their children safe from harm.
They say there aren’t any buses they’re able to use,
but there’s one every hour that they always refuse,
and they want more buses to encourage that mode
but complain if there are bus stops on their own road.
The men dressed in lycra have one agenda to preach
and have come seeking a new audience to reach
to convince them our problems would be suddenly healed
if only every journey made was two-wheeled.
The men in nice suits and expensive shoes
are claiming to voice their constituents’ views
but have turned up here wearing a frown,
complaining about the traffic on their way into town
and of parents using cars for the daily school run,
but they’ll be driving home from here when this meeting’s done.
You see that fella, the one over there,
the one slumped back in his office chair.
It was his stale aroma, his sweaty perfume
you could smell when you walked in the room.
Yeah, the one behaving like a little spoilt brat,
cornering acquaintances with one-sided chat.
You’ll hear his change rattling wherever he walks
but watch out for spit flying whenever he talks,
and the sandwich crumbs all over his face
as he moves close to invade your personal space.
He’ll hold you there with metaphorical chains
and tell you all about his model trains
but when the time comes make sure you get away,
he’ll try and keep you talking at the end of the day,
not wanting the last of his colleagues to go home,
as he dreads another night all alone
They made their way down Leppings Lane,
everyone heading to the game,
a trip to Wembley had been their dream
but in the way stood Cloughie’s team.
As the clock ticked round to three
the Police refused to open Gate C
so the crowd poured in to the Central pens
and people lost children, parents, lovers, friends.
Anfield mourned, the city cried,
proof was hidden, a newspaper lied.
Now there burns an eternal flame,
a reminder of the Policemen’s eternal shame.
And as for the ninety six who never went home?
Well they will never walk alone.
After the receptionist asked us to wait in the hospital heat
we sat there awkward and nervous, twitching our feet.
Then in a small room you lay down and they covered you in jelly,
turned on the scanner and our baby appeared on the telly.
I held your hand as we both watched in awe,
trying to understand the images that we saw,
so the nurse pointed at the head and the spine,
measured the size and said it was fine.
Then we watched the baby somersault and twirl
until we found out that we’re having a girl,
and we saw on the screen our daughter kicking you hard
while the nurse got a good picture to go in the card.
It’s summertime when he misses the place most,
when he want to go back to the North Wales coast,
to the beach in Prestatyn and up Gwaenysgor Hill,
with its view of the caravans and the Sky Tower in Rhyl.
He knows that he’s back there on home soil.
when he looks out to sea and can see North Hoyle,
much more elegant than the reactor on Anglesey,
or the power station that they built at Connah’s Quay.
He went to Denbigh, HM Stanley’s home,
a man who went to Africa, a long way to roam
through deserts and jungles, across the waves
to civilise the locals and turn them to slaves.
Machynlleth was next on this homeland tour,
where Glyndwr held his Parliament in 1404,
setting out the vision for an independent Wales,
a dream that 600 years later still fails
Llandudno, he thinks, is a nice place to be,
overlooked by Great Orme sticking out to sea,
shaped like the head of a smiling crocodile
who came for the day but stayed for a while.
He read of an island they call Ynys Mon
and went to Rhuthin where Tom Pryce was born,
the only man from Wales to win a Grand Prix
before dying too soon at Kyalami.
In Beddgelert a loyal dog lies in his grave,
thought to have harmed a baby he was trying to save.
It’s a magical land where giants have tread,
a mythical place where there the dragons are red.
A place known for its Eisteddfod and fresh spring lambs,
where he can sit in the A55 bank holiday jams,
where the seagulls attack him and there are bilingual signs,
the attractions are shut and the sun never shines.
The holidays are over and the weather’s turning grey,
but none of that mattered on Transfer Deadline Day.
No one in our office was working and the web connection slowed,
as we were all on the Football 365 blog and pressing ‘re-load’,
tense as we knew our clubs were running out of time
to bring in any players they wanted to sign.
We read all the gossip and the confirmed transfers
and discussed whether Modric would be staying at Spurs.
The Gunners fans hoped Arsene would improve their team,
but settled for the dregs after selling their cream.
There were a lot of players sealing moves to QPR
and updates on Cahill and Parker from the front of Harry’s car,
as Stoke signed some big lads for their long-ball games,
and Everton tried to hang on to all their big names.
After work there’s more news on medicals and Everton’s plight,
delivered to us by a shouting Jim White,
who’s giving us rumours that are mostly just tripe,
and getting excited by the Sky Sports hype,
before throwing to some poor reporter at a football ground,
who struggles to speak with all the chanting morons around.
As the deadline approaches there’s some breaking news,
that tells us Meireles has left for the blues,
but we’ve got Bellamy who’s trouble but an absolute steal,
replacing Joe Cole who will play in Europe for Lille.
And then it’s all over, no more rumours to hear,
until the window opens again in the new year.
It’s the middle of the day I need a break from the boss’s stare,
to get out for a walk, escape into the fresh air.
Past the car dealers where the White and Asian men work in sales
and the Black and Polish men work with sponges and pails.
In the other direction comes the girl with the ear phones and sour-looking face
who walks the same route each day at a rapid pace;
and the couple with matching coats, side by side ‘til lunchtime ends,
but showing no sign of being more than just friends.
Passing by the YMCA hostel where no one can stay,
since the council decided to take the funding away,
preferring an empty building on this bit of land,
to giving vulnerable kids a helping hand.
Here’s the man in the purple shirt with the combed back hair,
on his way to Morrison’s to get his lunch there.
I go up to the high street of this once thriving town,
where many of the shops have recently shut down,
replaced by stores where all the stock costs a pound,
the only places where queues at the tills can be found.
The youth who’s paid to hold an advertising sign
has his friends sitting around him to help pass the time.
The high street charity workers ignored by the parrers-by,
who quicken their step and won’t look them in the eye.
I take a short cut through the grounds where the empty church stands,
trying to avoid the sandwich wrappers and Special Brew cans,
left as a modern-day tribute to the people lying below
but a promising source of food for a lone foraging crow.
And as the time comes for me to head back to my work base,
I know I’ll see these strangers tomorrow in the same place.
So we’ve hung a bird feeder on our garden fences,
Providing birds with the seed it dispenses,
Attracting new life into our welcoming nest,
Relishing our chance to pass this test,
Re-stocking the supply when the birds need more,
Offering healthy food so we can be sure,
We’re doing what we can to keep sparrow secure.
