Specific Gravity With Parkinson’s

It’s not the proof I drink at night,
the late hour tablet, making light,
or timid rise, creaks stirring snores,
but tremor sways my gravity,
beyond my chuckles, Summer Wine.
A kerb or pothole, if addressed
with pause and concentrated step,
is fine, though not a pebble beach,
early learning on the strand, no
castle king, avoiding the sand.
In dizzy days when options hailed,
many choices, ways to turn,
finding balance on my paths,
depended on the footwear worn.
Crepe soles for dance, or mountain trek,
Dad’s slippers, or my mother’s socks,
I’ve tried that combination code,
avoiding slip-ons, tied in knots,
weighed up all options, centred thought,
but often waded, guttersnipe.
I disliked climbing, rockface, ropes,
but scaling tree trunk, from the ground?
As if skip squirrel, creeper tweet,
nuthatches headfirst, making mark
uncurling bark, find canapés,
beak garibaldi, biscuit bugs.
The right foot forward, only room –
at least it’s not three-legged race,
though any challenge better faced
when all companions holding hands.