Today I saw heather bounty
illuminate a folded moor
with purple promise, shimmering.
I passed along and left it there,
yomping, yakking on
like when a day is finished up;
a day when treasure hangs around
in clusters, azure, jokes, in folks
but sleepy dreamers miss it mostly,
gaze up at the moon.
After dinner, Andrew sits on the floor and belts
out notes – off key - from well known power ballads
tilting me back to early family parties
and recent business meetings when I could
and did express my tension, truth or beauty, disregarding.
Then his clamorous song stirs up a heavy
chest, my cave of mouth to a vinegar taste
and tears all dammed with clubby fingers
clenched for every time I couldn’t, didn’t
howl because he's singing out, because he can.
glint, hanging after rain;
something, nothing, fruit ahead of winter.
Blackberries shine ; look in wonderment
at a little business maybe concerning, or
not concerning, passers by
in conflict ‘do I - don’t I - want to
pick and eat a multi faceted fruit,
this burst of life as life potential?’
Blackberries will fall; not as victims,
not blessedly,
heroically, or even humanly
but now they shine in Autumn as their time and
blackberries turn a little in the wind,
impregnating optic nerves by dancing – no –
such a thought is crazy, silly,
weird, a human fantasy
but blackberries…
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?
