little plums, by reaching up for
drops
that hang like on a Christmas tree
under Autumn sun.
Feel for solid fruit,
pull down by closing finger grabs
in tiny time
yes, gorgeous for a while
but me (and mind) are off into ‘tomorrow’
hypnotized by stuff to do,
hell-bent to plan an avalanche
and soon my Tesco plastic bag is full
with blue and burning stars, heavy and
brimmed with purple energy. Little plums.
We ate a little dinner on Sunday evening
as family sitting around a dining table
(Van Morrison played a background beat)
and discussed how exciting the disco had been
so Andrew would clock it and tell to
Natasha, his teacher, next day of the dance
when he suddenly clapped out a huge ovation
for our cook, author of a sausage repast,
and we all joined in as never before:
never before so excited about being
together and noisily together thanking creation.
It was a talking day. Full
of words. He ached for
a trip to a Musical because
he hadn’t asked for two hours
so now he did ask, played a game with dice,
looked at Youtube and did an ask again.
Bedtime, he laid down but, at five past one, sat
up and asked for ‘live on stage’,
flopping back down when no one came.
Later, in moon brightness, he had a pee and
noticed rain that wasn’t there before
and how it was a Tuesday.
Marmite-toast for breakfast, in between
talking about Mama Mia, theatre and asking after
Lloyd Weber. Then he asked for Showtime
with a grin – Phantom, Cats, Les Mis, Chitty,
Oliver – live on stage - Musical please!
Dad said OK but nothing new occurred
so he asked again – Oklahoma -
and, in the presence of mystery,
magic struck with a knock
on the door. A Postman
carrying tickets. A hit! Encore!
Now – he takes a breath. What’s next?
Barbara Hepworth, sculptor:
intense burster of space
in bole movement, inert
twisting outwards, caving backwards
earth material in an age of
in-ness, this-ness,
donuts, tombstones, flowers, questing
inside – outside – outside – inside.
Andrew can’t see a point;
it’s better to sit on the floor,
let people walk round and
ignore
signals from a work of art
smiling out his inner man.
Any time
I travel faster than a body’s capability
(on a train, a car, a plane)
an inevitable and minimal vibration,
tickle-whizz of
fixation,
stirs my belly to
a tiny pulse of fear, excitement.
Sometimes, in the lifting or
plunging,
Andrew squeals
and engines have become
surreal,
alive.
