He just walked in and down to work
because, today, there’s work to do;
winching-you-in - hug seeker –
far away from normal folk
and you, you’re lucky to get caught
by a shock of hair, swinging gait
and, drawn, you choose to follow on
beckoning hands to crazy fun
until a break point; when he turns
to crack on with his mission,
tack along different breezes,
mischief, toys and glancing eyes.
Oh yes he’s work to do. Ta-ra.
Goodbye.
When he wrote ‘Prayer for my daughter’,
Yeats knew everyone has a curse;
ugliness, youth, old age or beauty
fixation, fear, control, abuse
and curses bash exuberance
- so how come Andrew oozes verve
with every glass of lemonade,
or song and any disco dance?
I ask him straight ‘Who teaches best?’
and he replies ‘It’s me, I do!’
‘What do you teach?’ he glances ‘Colours.’
‘which colours?’ and he answers ‘Blue!’
Known as the colour of humility – Blue -
a fractal of love and such a magnificent curse.
To gather rocks and build a house
To gather breath in springtime air
To gather fish from seven seas
To gather round a fire
To live
To life
To love
Together near a fire
Together swimming seas
Together breathing air
Together climbing higher rocks
A fat Accountant rides the Tube
in pinstripe grey with shiny shoes,
plates of meat (at least Thirteen’s)
while on his left an Indian woman;
petite, squashes her arm against
the carriage wall and to his right
a youth, skeletal, struggles with cookpots,
equally squashed, in orange boxes
balancing high a free newspaper,
flicking, flicking pages quickly
while big-man glances right and left,
sniffs and leans, holds a fuse:
Canary Wharfe, London Bridge,
Burmandsey, Southwark, into Waterloo.
