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.

Real Work

Our drive home was calm. All family

in back seats, chatting; and laughing. An orange sun

settling to earth and pillow clouds floating away against

a darkening blue.

Affable.

Earlier, Andrew

had refused to let anyone at dinner

rest or detach

until they were included.

‘All of us!!’ he loves to say and uses

tricks like I-spy or other

guessing games, singing - so that even the poor,

silent types who love disconnection

find it hard to avoid, without being rude.

It takes a remarkable act of will to include everyone

when some can’t really be bothered.

But now, with engine purring and sky darkening,

Andrew (the boy) sitting next to me, and family

laughing away in the back, is quiet.

And he is virtually never quiet!

But he looks at me sideways,

with a strange little smile

and time stops

and he nods a nod of knowing,

and I nod back, because we know

in our secret nodding club

he has done his work today;

his ineffable work of connection,

in play now,

in play.

Sands of Time

Onto shore

without end

horses roar

white tops bend

golden light

silver crowned

water fight

crash and grind

and my youth’s

furrowed brow

nature’s truth

splashes, ploughs;

lashes, squalls:

waterfalls.

God’s Anger

 One day my father said to the family

‘I’m finally gonna train that dog!’

and dragged our vibrant little Westie

out into a chill front room.

He batted its backside so hard

the dog skedaddled across the carpet;

a billiard ball bouncing off solid oak,

then turned on its belly, a crocodile.

‘Come here!’ he yelled and the little sod

had to crawl along freezing ground

to be yelped again across the room;

by volcano pulses of angry magma.

Age seven, I sat next door

deep in icy romance wondering,

wondering, wondering what the holy

King of Heaven suggested I should do.