Below is a poem I wrote a while ago following a conversation with my 83-year-old neighbour. She had invited me in to go through the details for her new Aid Call box, as I am the first person they call in emergency I need to know how it works and what to do when they call me. She showed me the pendant she wears around her neck on a red cord that she can press if she needs help, this then activates a box in her living room which automatically calls the Aid Call people. who will then call me or someone else on the list if I am not available. It is a miracle of modern technology and means she feels safer in her home, but also reminds her of her vulnerability and all that she has lost in terms of freedom and movement, all the things that I for one take for granted. So this poem is for her.
Rip Cord

There it hangs,

red and glaring,

waiting for a mishap,

for me to fall,

so it can set up its

incessant call,

beep, beep, beep,

let the world know

that I have grown slow,

decrepit and old.

I stare back at it,

and in my mind

turn into a rip cord,

that sets me free,

floating, soaring,

above the world,

like a bird

in the sky.