It is into the kindness of strangers

that I must thank

after rescuing me

from the dizzying black haze that

swept vigorous broom like

over me on the night I fell out

of my chair down Florrie Maybrick’s Bold Street.

 

I have had hardly been out on my own since…

 

For the fear, for someone who is only afraid

of one thing, of such a tumble,

such anarchy in the mind

as the battle rages between

blood and bone,

between sinew and breath,

for a tumble down onto the asphalt once more

for the complete darkness to befall

as it did a few days before my 44^th,

is one that I cannot have

without the kindness of strangers

forever being close at hand.

 

It scares me

that I might not

remember how to wake up

next time, that my name might be lost,

swimming against the dark tide

and the headaches that saunter into view

afterwards might claim me as their own,

take me in, bathe me,

wash me, leave me to drown

in their unpolished tin bath by the warmth of the

roaring fire

and leave me there as a perfect example

of what happens when the

kindness of strangers

is not there to embraced…

 

Blackness, I hold my hand

outstretched to you,

I hope you never hold it for long.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015