Writing on the Wall

Dudmaston.

Ahead, and scattered far and wide
discarded feathers, preened out,
strew the waterside.

My child selects those that are slender, thin,
the plumes they tickle him beneath his chin
and laughing he finds more,
from wings the shafts are firm straight quills.
In ripples of air he feels their lift,
and thrills, he knows for sure they’ll drift

along the lake-edge yellow iris bloom,
golden lily, fleur de lys,
they cling to leafy spears that merge
thick among seeding  bulrush stick.
Coots, skim like stones, their sharp calls
plunge arrows of alarm, says hide,
to their fluff-black, red-topped young,
who bob, tweeting at their side

and on the bank, our boy, a spike of feathers
bunched in either hand, arms pumping hard
he leaves the land. Says, look see I can fly,
I can fly.
This becomes the child’s constant cry.

Wind-waves dismiss a mirror image of the house
but fathom-folds of green support a prettier show;
ducks, geese, water lilies float white saucers of light
that shelter trout, eels, clams with pearls below,
hello, hello, his airborne song to a surprised grebe.
It dives, distracts him, he just skims the boat house.
First flights are tricky he shouts back, good bye
then says, come with me we’ll fly and fly and fly,

he ascends the gardens grassy slope,
spots stone steps, his sharp eyes see
small daisies, and he asks,
do you look up at clever me?

He turns with alarming aerobatic grace
approaches the Hall’s formidable south face,
and in the leaded window glass catches
a quick image of his body flying past,

below, the apron lawn is spread
with flowers from their flowery bed
and trees, in blossom dripping pinks and red
and groups of tiny people who snake a tail,
along the wooded lakes fine muddy trail.

On a chimney pot I see my child,
and wave, wonder can he see me?
Breathless he looks down, he pants,
I see you, but you’re small as ants,
and I am huge, he says, as big, as big as you.

Then with a hooting yell
opens up his palms
his feathers fall he leaps,
and luckily for him,
I spread wide my arms.

London July 2009

Washed up in Euston’s railway tide
we take the tube to riverside
you stay a stranger but I find
regret, we don’t connect, collide,

and as we move through tunnels blind,
your image imprints on my mind.
Here, from a place to you unknown
the time we shared is on rewind, 

that slate blue dress, an even tone
of natural linen lightly sewn,
slung round your neck a simple shape,
one white holed shell, an almost bone.

Your profiled head, (a loop on tape)
brown curls rest easy on your nape,
freckled skin, and on one hand,
at rest along the dull creased drape,

a wide and well worn wedding band.
Clothes speak connections, sea to land
in rustic coloured sack-cloth-style,
textures of flax and rock and sand.

I stare, you turn to me, you smile
an innocent of worldly guile.
Sat opposite I shine med’ light,
this shopper-holic in denial.

Mirano-beads gleam aqua-bright
otherwise I’m dressed in white.
About this we could have spoken,
more flag than fabric to your sight,

finally our silence broken,
yachting signals are the token
chat from light-houses, cliff and stone,
we might have shared a joke then

but we maintained we were alone,
don’t give out numbers on the phone.
In fragile-cargo-lives we dread
stops, starts, open doors, so I’m prone

to imagine things left unsaid,
from waking thoughts and dreams in bed,
our paths that crossed we’ll never tread,
know this by you will not be read.