WIP : A Daughter's Tale

 My father Billy died when I was nine years old and, it seems to me now, has permeated my life ever since, as my memoir The Romancer (see right) probably demonstrated. I miss him even now.

This is a poem about him which I have worked on for some time now

                            

                           Billy: A Daughter’s Tale

We walked along, your  giant’s hand in mine,  

long fingers up inside my woollen sleeve -

I remember nights she left the house

when you read the paper and I scaled your knee

settling, birdlike
into that rustling space.

I remember how we cut out pictures

for the Panjandrum book. And you read us stories -

your voice going up and down

What would you think of our young one?

Tall in Tai Kwan Do gear

white clad and obliquely oriental -

Or ready for cricket

complete with pads and faceguard,

grave and somewhat pedantic – a family trait

When I passed the age of thirty seven

- a lifetime since -

it dawned on me how young you were -  

yet at that dying time

you seemed to me so very old -

it did not feel too terrible.

wr

Birthday Vibes: Translucent Butter Muslin

(1)

I wake up trembling

Time vibrating, tolling

Like a church bell



(2)



I see you standing there

dressed in yellow, arms raised -

backlit translucent butter muslin

Visions pulsing like stars before my eye:

You, with red hair in a fluffy coat

You, in sky blue crêpe party dress -

toggled at the neck in amber

You, in a silk dress, smiling -

he stoops, his arm slung

around your shoulders



You, standing straight and crisp

in your blue uniforn

silver buckle belted



A Place For Naming



(3)

The third of four children,

I slipped out barely noticed

among the dogs of war

and other fine distractions.

Later on I made you tea

and passed hard tests,

wrote so many books

just to please your heart

and catch your eye



There is the legend -

a story told so many times -

of me in your arms, you walking

to the church, waist high in snow -

to expunge your sin

and endow me with

a name made up by the man

who loved lost boys.



(4)

I see you standing here

dressed in yellow, arms raised -

all translucent butter muslin