The ?? Health Catalogue

Here comes another, in through the door,

The sad little booklet lands on the floor.

So through those doleful pages I flick.

Corn pads or bedsocks, which shall I pick?

 

There's stools and sticks and weird bathroom stuff.

Handles and cushions: a blood pressure cuff.

And when we get old and can't stand straight

Here's walkers and stair lifts to stave off our fate!

 

A posture support is here in my view.

Incontinence pads and a footbath or two.

How CAN I resist these powders and pills

Or a hoist for the bed when I really get ill

 

There's magnets and bedrails and wheelchairs too.

Some bathmats with bobbles in white and in blue.

There's tables for beds, some rollers for a chair

And oxygen masks if you're gasping for air.

 

Your nose needs a plaster to quiet that snore.

You can wrap up your wrist because it's so sore.

You could soften your nails and bandage your knee

And choose pebble specs to help you to see.

 

There's pants to hold ruptures; a seat for the loo!

The stuff of the future for me and for you??

When all of these adverts I've finally read,

I think on the whole, I'd rather be dead.

Mothers Have Changed

 

Mothers have changed, they’re not as they were,

For where is the apron, the corsets, the fur?

They are conscious, I’m told of image these days.

Mothers are different in so many ways.

 

No longer they’re found at the sink or the stove.

Off on a cruise they are likely to rove.

They don’t bend the knee on the floor or the step

They’re drinking champagne or a sugar-free Pep.

 

Their hair will be blonde or pink or red,

They are out having dinner when they should be a’bed.

They drive all the kinds in a brand new car

Or treat some old friends in the local bar.

 

Computers and finance, web sites or plays,

These are the int’rests of mothers these days.

Their concerns are for famines and drug over-use

For paedophile prowlers out on the loose.

 

No longer they fuss if you don’t wear a vest

Or because of a cold, come last in your test.

They don’t knit or sew or bake very much

Or tidy your room when you’ve said “don’t touch”,

 

They go off to work in a slim, dark suit.

They lunch off a yoghurt or small piece of fruit.

They save for your college, your wedding, your car,

Or pay for your holiday taken afar.

 

They’ll be by your side when your first child is born,

They’ll weep with you both if your marriage is torn.

They’ll bear you and rear you and love you the same.

Not everything’s changed in the mothering game!

 

Salute then, these mothers who work with a will,

Worn now and older but seeming young still.

If outside has changed, are they, then, to blame?

It’s inside that counts and that’s still the same!

 

    Julia Macleod