The Singing Season

Who Am I?

Sit on semi-wet sand-gold, on coat.
Lug-worm says, "And who are you?"

Ask the waves but they reply:
"You're the ideas: mind behind eye,
'Oh!' behind nose, 'Mm!' under tongue,
bard behind ear, reach behind grasp.
We only signature, imprimatur."

'Will you give me a blank?
Just your sign?'

"You can try."

Present white paper.
No. Not white.

'These whorls and ridges?
Whose these -
fingerprints to launder?

Can you smooth them clean
imprint your own?'

Bend down; pick up
an illegible stone.

Oh, then,

ask the sun, since it
beats such sway, early April.

"I can tell you who you are not:

'neither Erasmus nor a robin',
not 'Eric The Half A Bee',
nor Mrs Duerdon nor a frog,
nor gargle-grinder nor onion chef ..."

And on that stream
of dissolving nonsense,
doze in carmine and in green,
eyelids opening and closing,
as the shell-like spirals,
eccentric, long-ear twitches,
whispered by warm wind....

But no. No sleep.
Car's parked on ticket.
Come - move on.
Stand up again - and here's your stick.

'Then you can tell me, Joe.
Who am I?'

"Dad."