He stood at the top of the stairs
insisting he could go down himself
but, like a frightened bullock refusing
the crush, his body wouldn’t move
from the spot where I used to sit
in the dark listening to rows in the kitchen
when my mother showed him the bill
from the shop. He stood at the top
of the stairs in a fever that came on him
as fast as nightfall in winter,
steep, narrow steps between him
and the ambulance ticking
outside the back door.
He stood there in checked pyjamas
and thick Wellington socks,
in the house where he was born
and had sworn he would never leave.
I held him from behind
my brother in front
coaxing with a tenderness
I’d never seen between them,
come on Dad, just one step, one step.
Jane Clarke
from When the Tree Falls (Bloodaxe Books, 2019)