A few weekends ago, I cleared out my wardrobe and came across some old friends, which I thought I would share with you.

I wrote lots of poems in my youth and this one was my mum’s favourite, so I’m starting with ‘Harold’.

 

 

 

Harold

Harold wasn’t feeling well

Poor lad, he’d lost his zest,

So he went to see his doctor,

Who sent him for a test.

 

Harold wasn’t feeling well

And if one thing made him worse,

It was the smell of sterile flooring

And a strict, imposing nurse.

 

But Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he sat outside the clinic,

And he watched as the phlebotomists

Mixed the haematinic.

 

The first man rolled his sleeve up,

And flexed his elbow joint,

Harold wondered why he did it,

But he was soon to get the point.

 

He’d been sitting there for ages;

He had better things to do –

He had a meeting at ten thirty

And another one at two.

 

Poor Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he started counting sheep,

It distracted him from feeling ill

And it sent him off to sleep.

 

He came around at ten o’clock

And felt better for his rest,

But how long had he waited

For this bloody test?

 

He tapped his fingers slowly,

And studied both his feet,

He picked his dried up elbow

And fiddled with a sweet.

 

But Harold wasn’t feeling well,

He was such a lifeless heap,

So he slowly closed his eyes once more

And nodded off to sleep.

 

His number flashed up on the board,

But Harold did not budge,

So the fellow sitting opposite,

Gave him a gentle nudge.

 

But Harold keeled right over,

He’d have got up if he could,

But he got so sick of waiting,

He fell asleep for good.

 

Written: 01.07.87 9-10.30 pm.