You would always leave Lucozade

by my bed

when I was ill.


The glass bottle

glowed with a golden neck.

It was a child’s Champagne-


A toast to sickness and shivers.

With its mottled spine

like tiny glass pox


and its bubbles

and its froth

that sunk into lava.


I would sip, burp, turn over

and sleep as you would leave

content. Belief in the power


of remedies, of old wives’ tales, ointments,

tonics, medicinal drinks, lotions boiled sweets

that are now just a curiousity.




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