Here, by a road in Manchester.
A child blows bubbles, sees them pop,
asks with wonder for “more, Mummy more”.
And in this room, behind the glass,
(a divider of that and this),
a great soul hears them fall.
Not Steve, not Russel, but All
as voices through windows call,
reaching new lands unaware.
Bubbles pop, and “more Mummy more”.
Russel, he’s a man of care.
One hundred years of human,
as he cares to ponder this pain
and tenderly hold its hand;
in grief, stillness and loss again,
with a faraway look of the slain.
Bubbles pop, and “more Mummy more”.
And Care she comes unguided,
unwintered and ungroomed,
rising even unassumed,
from the body’s derelict rooms.
Softly, she’s here now, from behind
borders of mind, long-entombed.
In silence and softness, freedom talks,
through lowly, well-worn comfort walks,
in this sitting room, a terraced niche,
of boundless peace in Manchester.
Bubbles pop, and “more Mummy more”.
Georgi Y. Johnson
