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.
Look, it’s always a dangerous state
- exuberance –
a place that leads to Falls, especially
when others might be watching; brothers,
sisters, fathers,
mothers. I predict they might laugh
loudly at you - like any cynic -
but on bright
days when the sun winks, let it out.
First off – with a peep out from
sleepy eyes he starts the
world again and smiles
looking at toys
who know places
like seaside where
ice cream tastes good
and dodgems where they bumped
and exciting musicals
when people on stage wave
like a big mirror.
He knows where he’s going
and knows it doesn’t matter.
On the school-bus he laughs
loud at songs and driver
each with its bubble of colour
and in minutes hello’s
headmaster, teachers, fellows,
feeling again excitement
like dodgems, musicals,
ice cream knowing he’s got it
made with smiles and friendship,
love and funny people;
lucky life.
