Pru Bankes Price

Retired professional administrator having worked with several blue chip organisations, now retired and living in Newquay – enjoying a changed pace of life, along with the history and spirit of Cornwall.

His Best Word

Stamping along the familiar track
the stammering boy is off,
scuffing dust into ochre clouds
at his heels, red-haired rage
hammering a tattoo in his skull.
Enough    it flies out, loud,
effortless, suddenly easy.
He cowboy-gallops, left hand
slapping his thigh at every step
heading for solace, away
from the sun-softened playground tar
that sticks to his sandals’ crepe soles.
Away from the sneering,
jeering, as shitty self-pity boils
his blood.   He tries it again
Enough   his best word
somersaults over and over
roaring into the shimmering heat
bouncing off the trees.
His best word when sentences
tangle his tongue
like a sailor’s slip knot
only able to slip, never to knot.
Hurling himself into scrubby grass
beneath the hedge
fists pummel parched ground
he inhales the sudden
silent emptiness.   Breath slows
he squints through narrowed eyes.
Under the blinding sky’s dome
he scowls at the dream that is his life.

Pru Bankes Price

This poem was written for my brother who, when young, struggled with speech until it was suggested he be allowed to use as dominant his left rather than his right hand.

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