Tuesday, 13 January 2015

And still, once a week or so,

And still, once a week or so,
the thought comes to me,
"I'll call my Tata today";
and I remember again,
that it's two full years now,
two full years since he died.

And where is he now?
In these tea towels we use?
The photos that hang on the wall?
The electric corkscrew, the saucepans, the side plates,
the pictures, the lamp or the book?

Is he in the memory of a zip wire,
flying kites from a roofrack,
or digging for worms in the park?
Driving at night, or
driving a Zephyr,
or driving a white Hiace van?

Is he in red wine or white,
Benedictine, Calvados,
Italian restaurant or French?
Avocado, strawberries,
salad with dressing,
Fresh coffee, brown sugar and cream.

Boxes of fruit, apples and oranges,
collecting fresh fish from the market?
Coffee and pastries in Drucker's patisserie,
bistros and candles at night?
Beer in a jug in the heat of the summer,

Is he in the drive to Cornwall and Devon,
to Barmouth through Bala,
to Bristol, and Weston and Bath?
To Ashby La Zouch, and Norwich,
and London, and walking through Soho at night?

Maybe I'll call him, I think.
I can't call him,
but maybe his call's all around.
When I drive, how I drive,
when I speak, how I speak,
even how I shake hands,
even that.



Sent from my iPhone

1 comment:

  1. Ahhhh, just lovely. I remember sitting in your Tata's Zephyr.. good times Krysia, good times my friend... Sally School xxx

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