Not Home
We Jostle for space,
men in leathers
clutch children who sip coke,
and women shunt pushchairs.
We’re dull grey, among the stalls
array of weighty apple towers,
lemons, sunny exotics that glow pink,
and veg’ fresh dug from dirt that day.
Still earthed and linked are
set with beans and greens
that gleam above the sizzled scent
of Borough Market beef
fried up along the lanes.
Under red advertising canopies
hover pale faced lads
by great wheels of cheese,
they offer tasters, smile, invite.
In the noise, the throng and din
you call my mobile,
because I am not home, not in.
‘Where is the heater Ma?’
You ask from a chilled void
of an empty house in early spring,
as trays of fresh baked bread pass by
cosy smells, things that you can’t see
at a distance baby Abbie cries.
You’re all cold and far from home
it’s a strain, desperation kicks you
in the back, and babies hunger pain.
Our voices meet and that’s the lot.
Lucky I’d left the door key,
just in case, tucked down, below a pot.
Others don’t approve.
I say, homes should be open.
Trace elements in my D.N.A.
from Goldilocks,
lost in the forest late at night,
found hot porridge, big chairs,
the comfort of a bed, ‘just right’.
In the hubbub I talk too loud
I listen to your voice that’s tender, frail.
This Dad, I know, won’t let them down.
As yours did, and mine, and other fathers down the line.
My hot chocolate and a hug won’t do, I feel you’re hurt,
and I am sad I can’t be there for you.