I don’t know about you but
I’ve avoided writing poems
about Dad
turning working hands, at David Browns’,
on pinion, spur and helical gear
although, cogitating now by a winding river,
distant cars are meshing male and female parts;
gearbox dreams of speed and torque.
He worked on every Aston Martin
James Bond drove
so he saved the world
and he loved, he loved,
a beer and chat.
I don’t know about you.
A friend is scanning HEAT magazine
on a beach where a passionate sun belts him
so he takes off his hat and flourishes sweat.
Boiled, we take a steaming walk and clock
an older woman sporting HOT
on a T-shirt over her large chest - cup D;
so we lick ice cream and out from a beach hut
struts an aging man, neoprene black;
a sea-lion performer, a drama king,
ready to otter the waves on a surfboard,
buttocks trembling in rubber technology.
The sea is cold - and waves inevitably hit him,
hit him
and hit him again.
Sleep, Andrew, sleep:
when climbers inch walls,
we scramble, reach, and act as if
there is no way to fall.
But your smile and strangeness
makes timid people creep
and slide away from heaven
back to a cave of sleep.
You gaze out from windows
wave again, again,
seeking for an answer;
not why or where – but when?!
Crack the boring bubble,
take a dancing bow;
dancing in this moment,
in this now, for now.
Asleep, but never forget
we’re dancing at a Ball:
awake, asleep, you do know
the glory of it all.
a tractor turns and its mechanical racket,
indescribable vibration,
up itself, makes no sense
while my three sons, asleep in a nearby tent,
celebrate
learning, feeling, singing, whispering, dancing.
Most clatter is hollow; spiraling labyrinthine ears
and once I sat in an empty cave and heard – Nothing.
Instinctively, I made up noises to cheer
my brain – sounds of people –
like these boys breathing and dreaming in a tent’s stocking;
yearning for the centre of a small warm circle.
When Andrew wakes at Yes of day,
a spark ignites from early light
and flames alive a sunny face
with a flash of blood and fire
and then his first word of the day;
a small volcano simmers power
with a blink, a spurt, a warning cry;
Summer’s turning cold
even with a southern breeze
and crazy seagulls mock a falling day
expecting winter fish
but children still bob like seals in the cool sea
or skim flat stones from a beach,
reaching for a sense of water.
In the wind, kites fly up, parallaxing clouds
and hot smoke leaps away from chimney stacks.
Grounded, sixteen old and puddled tables
that could fodder more than a hundred people
sit empty.
At dusk, an archetypical truth;
this place is water, air and fire and earth.
Nothing smells like a small sausage
cooked in open air
whether or not it
cracks or holds together
and afterwards
when meat and bread
have slipped on down,
only then, Andrew
walks away and questions
toys on how they’re feeling
and they, imbued, reply as one
‘Fantastic!’
