Grunting, you slipper-creep across the floor
slower than a sailboat in a Force 1 breeze.
I wonder whether in that ancient circuit
board of a head from which so little
intelligible has issued for weeks
the Beaufort Scale still means anything
or whether, if mentioned, you would
as usual get totally muddled,
mistake Force 1, under whose waftings
the sea hardly ripples, for gale Force 10.
Standing close in case of mishap I watch
you grip the grubby Zimmer frame
tighter, then tack hard to port and slump
into the Stannah Lift that will ease you
past prints and oils of your father’s ships
until you reach the downstairs harbour.
There, berthed in your favourite chair,
you turn to the window and observe
where clouds head, how the beech tree stirs.
Fine day for a float, you tell your son.
A mild south-westerly, no more than a three.
Later, I check the web, find you were right; dead on.
