WEBMAKER & FRIENDS

WEBMAKER AND FRIENDS.

Spring. Deep sleep in the early hours
jarred awake by the creak-shriek of wood
clinging to fast-embedded nail.
"Who's there?" through the window garage-ward
Silence. Return to sleep.
Morning. Every horizontal garage plank removed
placed, transformed into a little house in the one solid corner.
My small son, smile wavering uncertainly, says,
"It was Wood – Den Man, Daddy"
I scowl, feign anger
and smile behind my hand.

Summer. Lightly dozing in the warmth
roused by a shatter-crash of broken glass
splintered on resisting stone.
"What's the matter?" towards my den
"Nothing, Daddy" Continue doze.
Later. In my den a pull-along truck
piled higgledy-piggledy high with locks, catches, handles.
My son, serious and very sincere says
"It was Lobsterman, Daddy"
I growl, feign anger
and smile behind my hand

Autumn. Catching up with admin. tasks
disturbed by a shuffle-scuffle of trainer-shod
feet across the bedroom floor long before bedtime.
"What are you doing?" up the stairs.
"I'm tired, Daddy". Return to work.
Bed-time, and my son's room is a mass of wool
woven to an intricate impenetrable web, access for one.
My son, guilt chasing glee, says
"It was Web-Maker, Daddy"
I grimace, feign anger
and smile behind my hand.

Winter. More unconscious than asleep
Forced awake by the clamour of the telephone
insistent and I know, I know, I know
"Yes?" a barely audible whisper
"Intensive Care. Come quickly" I run.
In the ward, Wood-den Man and Lobsterman
have followed Webmaker into his cocoon
never to return.
Anger is replaced by grief, unfeigned,
and no smile now.

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A poem about my late son.

Rhys took his own life using a fatal overdose of my ex-wife's medication.

He died on the day after Boxing Day 2001 aged 29. He left no note, and no clues as to why, although we all have our views.
 
Rhys 'prepared' us for his death by saying that he was dying of cancer.
The post-mortem showed no health problems.
 
During those last 3 months we talked often and long - though he steadfastly
refused to let me talk to his doctors who had made the 'diagnosis'.
One of the things he demanded of me in our talks was that I resume writing and making pictures. He was very concerned that I was too much wrapped in my normal work to the detriment of my own well-being.
 
He was right, of course, I hadn't done anything creative for over 15 years.
He is entirely responsible for me being here on the web, because he brought back some of my artwork and poetry which I had left in the family home some ten years earlier. 'To start you off,' he said.
 
His death was the worst thing I have ever endured.
Although most people would have thought him a 'difficult' child -  he was clinically hyperactive - I couldn't help but love him dearly.