I bow. ‘Thank you… Thank you…’

Cinders

After the pantomime, carrying you back to the car

On the coldest night of the year

My coat, black leather, cracking in the wind.

Through the darkness we are guided by a star

It is the one the Good Fairy gave you

You clutch it tightly, your magic wand.

And I clutch you tightly for fear you blow away

For fear you grow up too soon and – suddenly,

I almost slip, so take it steady down the hill.

Hunched against the wind and hobbling

I could be mistaken for your grandfather

And sensing this, I hold you tighter still.

Knowing that I will never see you dressed for the Ball

Be on hand to warn you against Prince Charmings

And the happy ever afters of pantomime.

On reaching the car I put you into the baby seat

And fumble with straps I have yet to master

Thinking, if only there were more time. More time.

You are crying now. Where is your wand?

Oh no. I can’t face going back for it

Let some kid find it in tomorrow’s snow.

Waiting in the wings, the witching hour.

Already the car is changing. Smells sweet

Of ripening seed. We must go. Must go.

Who are These Men?

Who are these men who would do you harm?

Not the mad-eyed who grumble at pavements

Banged up in a cell with childhood ghosts

Who shout suddenly and frighten you. Not they.

The men who would do you harm have gentle voices

Have practised their smiles in front of mirrors.

Disturbed as children, they are disturbed by them.

Obsessed. They wear kindness like a carapace

Day-dreaming up ways of cajoling you into the car.

Unattended, they are devices impatient

To explode. Ignore the helping hand

It will clench. Beware the lap, it is a trapdoor.

They are the spies in our midst. In the park,

Outside the playground, they watch and wait.

Given half a chance, love, they would take you

Undo you. Break you into a million pieces.

Perhaps, in time, I would learn forgiveness.

Perhaps, in time, I would kill one.

Four Sons (A Wish)

One son at each corner

of the bed

on which I lie

Four sons, the bearers

of the coffin

when I die

Bearhugs

Whenever my sons call round we hug each other.

Bearhugs. Both bigger than me and stronger

They lift me off my feet, crushing the life out of me.

They smell of oil paint and aftershave, of beer

Sometimes and tobacco, and of women

Whose memory they seem reluctant to wash away.

They haven’t lived with me for years,

Since they were tiny, and so each visit

Is an assessment, a reassurance of love unspoken.

I look for some resemblance to my family.

Seize on an expression, a lifted eyebrow,

A tilt of the head, but cannot see myself.

Though like each other, they are not like me.