Coming home to a broken key
in the open door and a gentle snore
from a drunken shape
on a frozen floor and all you feel
is a kind of desperate love.
Standing by the lock-pit
as the rusting ship slides through,
watching a rigid face relax and smile,
receiving a half-wave part salute,
glad to have him home.
Digging down in the long thin bag,
discarding the fags and the booze,
finding the Fry’s chocolate cream,
glossing the American magazines
until dawn.
Being collected from school,
hair shining, heels clacking,
hands in hands,
going to see Dr No
while others went home for tea.
Waking in the dark,
Waking in the dark,
feeling the touch of a hand on the scalp.
Hearing him coughing, unlocking the door.
Hearing the taxi driving him down dock.
Hearing the house that would not sound the same
Hearing the house that would not sound the same
for a while.
Watching the weather, hearing the forecast,
knowing depressions are converging up north.
Watching big snow settle on the grass
that he cut once, the year Mam died.
Sobbing softly one Christmas Eve,
taking the bargain copy
of the complete works of the Bard,
seeing his beaming smile when he knew
this gift was important
without knowing why.
Watching him wonder at the bonfire, once,
delighting in the scene
while other dads practiced a ritual routine.;
Pointing out Orion’s Belt on the way back
telling me that was his signpost for home.
Standing by him at the side of the grave,
feeling him rock and swell,
not for the first time seeing him all at sea.
not for the first time seeing him all at sea.
Watching him stand on a corner
in the town, observing the world
in which he only partly belonged,
like a gull in a Bradford square.
Feeling him pass that time
on a Midwest turnpike,
somewhere between St Louis and New York,
Trailways travellers passing unseen
at night in that year we never met once.
Watching him crossing the bar,
finding his land-legs again,
buying for the world;
echoing laughter that ripples down the years
spouting his drunken oath -m
His hand, his heart.
His hand, his heart.
Finding him in the chair
in front of the flickering TV cartoons,
stretched in his vest,
breathless, becalmed.
Remembering the tattooed woman on his arm.
Seeing the seaman at rest.
