You may see your children regularly

I leave you in the evening,

my heart a running beat;

you turn yourself away from me

devising new pursuits

and friendships for the seeking,

a spell to cast by reaching;

my cells are shrieking ‘singleton’,

your stage is somewhere new!

My answer’s in this question

‘Is there anything left to say?’

I shift myself away from you

for days and nights and days:

you’re sailing after treasure,

digging joy and leisure

along a measure and a stretch,

two weeks, away, away!

Step Back

I listen to Bach,

I get into Mozart

and still I’ve no sense of all the power they wield

in rhythm and tone,

vibrating a note

but movable senses of tension I yield.

You may see the children

Every second week I take

my sons back to their mother:

with hugs, a final look,

one warm belly to another.

Sun and moon far west

tip a singing heart

‘Ta-ra my lads, it’s for the best’

turning backs, apart.

Throats move,

Adam’s apples,

eyes of love,

no appeals

blurring sight;

twelve days. Goodnight.

Charon

He plods, and asks, for ‘tickets please’

beneath  this old train roof;

alarms are hanging from the eves

- and passengers are safe.

People turn and smile and look

(outside, a shocking sea)

this train is traveling to a stop

wherever we will be

and, in each carriage, swinging doors

so I could saunter through

and talk or pay, or sleep or play,

or curl in my cocoon?

The driver knows the route we take

but only he can see

our spiral west into the dark

on a ticket for today.

Call

Thank you for holding.

We may never know what’s going on

at the very centre of our Earth

where, four thousand miles straight down,

zooms a point, indivisible, hot.

Thanks for continuing to hold.

At least old Mozart’s a tuneful balm

but, sadly, there’s a potential burst,

a chance of magma time:

to do my best or to do my worst.

Thanks for holding.

Like you and me,

Andrew’s growing old

but two fine eyes

(mischievous, bold)

continue to soften my arrogance, pride.

Seasons have turned

red, golden, green,

birthdays have burned;

places we’ve been.

Give me your hand;

what do you need?

There he stands,

how to proceed?

We need a decision some time soon;

retreat or advance, run for cover, Return.

Soft,

Andrew has odd ways, strange ways,

a boy who’s mostly laughing,

living loud in vibrant days

and often loving, loving.

Singing in delighted tones

twinkling eye to eye,

yielding as the special one

who climbed up there to die

but sensible folk, how could they know

how to see, to be

with Andrew and his runny nose;

a tissue’s ecstasy.