THE ANALEMMA

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THE ANALEMMA

Standing here in the same spot
Every day
Makes me think of you
This figure-of-eight feeling
I sometimes get
Is not something new
Your smile, your being,
Your overall everywhere-ness
Mingled with your general couldn’t-care-less-ness
Make me think that perhaps I’m wrong
It is an abstract thing
Like a solar analemma
It has no physical existence
Except in images long-gone.

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GOING ROUND THE SUN AGAIN

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GOING ROUND THE SUN AGAIN
Going round the sun sixty eight times
Takes some doing
Even if you are merely a passenger.
The first time round was really a blur
No sense at all that we were
Doing almost seventy thousand miles an hour.
Mother said I screeched most of the way
And that the snow piled high
For months every day.
Even the tenth spin
I don’t recall a lot of that
Except that it was the year mother got fat
For a while, anyway
And then she was thin again.
The years stretched to decades
Still round and round we went
Sometimes I travelled in the company of steel bars
And sometimes I journeyed with the stars.
And there were times when writers came to stay
Becket, Behan, Millar, Hemingway
Of course the children came too
But for many years I have tripped with you.
My father got to number sixty nine;
I wonder how many rounds will be mine?

FATHER AND SON

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FATHER AND SON

My mum says you’re my dad
The words ripped through me
Like a chainsaw through soft timber
Then scattered like spindrift
Along the sea wall

Lean young people glistened in the sun
While my heart pounded
And the young boy,
With shoulders rounded,
Hurried along to keep up with his mum

It was true; I was his father,
Of a sort.
Ten years ago I was for sure;
Ten lifetimes since I
Had slammed the goodbye door.