Within a scattering sphere of history
i am my nearest Now,
but strangely nearer you -
through that which beds in sharp statistics:
snake-head caterpillars shadowing avian fears,
pips between teeth,
speedwell in cracks of banks;
than beyond
such
stubbornness, lying in light,
an undifferenced retinue of possibilities
ready to resume when we are gone.
Process post, plunge into washing-up,
glean from blackbird's diamond notes:-
Self is a child, trailing fingers over gunnels
to catch at gleams, absorbed with seemings,
too far from the bubble's source to twig
the tail of goosegrass stuck in mischief;
or traveling with prison-neck,
watches its arse,
missing, presumed ironic,
all naive wonders but self-trickery,
a trickle of rationalised criticality slipping its clutch.
Even in gear as cool as maybe
it wears
a party-coloured motley,
swirling,
bubble iridescence.
...................
*A kind of poetry letter to my father.
