Written in response to a challenge set at Poetry for the People: write a poem mentioning a walking stick. Perfomed at the ‘A Load of Poets’ open mic night at 1200 Postcards, Hastings on 8th February 2024 and at the Poetry for the People meeting at the Royal Victoria Hotel, Hastings on 9th February 2024.

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My Uncle Jack 
Came back from Iraq 
With a medal, a limp and a cane; 
A dodgy right knee, 
PTSD, 
And a vague insurmountable pain. 

He did not say a lot –  
It was hot, he’d been shot –  
And he kept himself to himself; 
And his medal was hid 
Out of reach of us kids 
In a small metal box on a shelf. 

He lived at our place 
I remember his face 
And the click of his stick on the floor; 
He seemed to be in 
Some battle within, 
But he never mentioned the war. 

Till his untimely end  
The stick was his friend 
It became an additional limb; 
Like an extra joint  
He’d use it to point 
At the things that were just beyond him: 

The tv remote, 
His hat and his coat 
An annoyingly speeding car; 
Passers-by,  
Stars in the sky,  
Beers at the back of the bar. 

He’d stare till he tired 
At the glowing coal fire 
His mood growing ever more black; 
And when he was sick, 
He’d talk to the stick; 
Like a dog, it did not answer back 

Now that he’s dead 
What secrets he said 
To the stick, we never will tell; 
His will stipulated 
That he be cremated 
And the cane should go with him as well. 

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