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I’m flying face-downwards through a cylindrical tunnel; electrical storms explode, lightning-flashes glance off metal surfaces, startled fireballs roll, erupt, the metallic clang of closing doors bombards my eardrums; gale-force winds blast my cheeks, whip my hair to rats’-tails, flatten my hands against my thighs as I torpedo westwards — portholes thunder shut, leaving me with snapshots, flashcard impressions of past lives, vacant worlds, a nineteen forties’ living-room, an empty nursery, a cluttered kitchen, computer stations — scanners, printers — onwards, gathering speed, past a deserted playground, a country church, a wooded hillside thick with snow, towards a chrysanthemum of yellow light.
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, she’s coming back — sixteen, fifteen, she’s almost there, fourteen, thirteen — my heart drums against my rib-cage; twelve, eleven — the helicopter whirr of a bee’s wings and its body bouncing off the window, mad bent on escape — ten, nine, come on, you can do it… I open my eyes, note tubes, drips, the doctors bending over me; nurse is rubbing my hands, another supports me as I turn my face to greet the sun’s warmth, crying for the living hell of it.
I’m following my cousin and her chap, (investigating, that’s what I call this game) we’re on the cliff path heading for the sea, they’re the target, I’m the Silent-spy, I saw it at the cinema last week.
I’m creeping nearer now the ground is rough, my cousin’s up to something, that’s for sure — she’s got that fellow in a stranglehold. I don’t like him, he’s got a surly manner, there’s something in his trousers he keeps hidden.
July 10th 1943 —suspect surly he’s carrying a package in his pants — I’m creeping nearer, crawling on my belly, I wonder if they’ll hang me if I’m caught.
That chap is up to mischief mark my words, he’s got my cousin in a stranglehold, perhaps she’s got a parcel in her bra, he’s undoing buttons, cursing everyone, my cousin’s saying no, but meaning yes.
I think it’s time I jumped in on the act see exactly what my cousin’s got to say — a rugby tackle aught to do the trick — maybe they’ll give me two bob to go away…
I'm sick of high faluting-pratidudes from they-who-walk-the-water Holy Joes whose pulpit voices shout our dosi-dos. Such cloudy silver-lined Beatitudes and narrow lane no turning attitudes proportion them the highs and us the lows. I've had my fill of Punch and Judy shows, the frenzied zeal of moral rectitudes.
There's life beyond the tudes of Lat and Long, unnetted seas where men have pearls for eyes where love comes first and all feel they belong, and men don't need to question their cap size. No carrion crows to double-talk plainsong, or leach the scarlet dawn of clouded whys.
The undertaker wants Dad’s shoes. The thought of him just lying there, his pin-stripe suit — and best white shirt, his work-worn naked feet — probably shouting, Where’s my bloody boots!
He always called shoes boots. I polish them and stow them in my bag. It’s time to go; how strange it seems, knowing I won’t see him, won’t hear his, Giddy up to Riversflow…
My hands shake as I close the door. Don’t cry, I tell myself, You’ve got a task to do. Dad’s face appears, pastiched on passers by; I know he’s dead, but can’t believe its true.
The streets seem changed, until I pass the Co-op. Stop. Go back, gather courage, look inside, believing in that moment, that he’ll pop his head out, call, I’ll see you later, mind
you tell thee Mum I’ve bought scrag-end-of lamb. But he’s not there. I hug his shoes and stride, with more determined steps It won’t take long — five hundred yards, turn left, bear right, then straight…
I’m ushered in, spoken to in low, slow tones, asked, Would you like to see your Father now? His waxen face and hollow cheeks, stark bones, owe nothing to the Dad I love and know —
he’s all of that and more at Riversflow: the sun’s his warm embrace, the rustling leaves his, ‘Well done, thank you, love’. The kiss he blows a fragrant See, I told thee not to grieve…
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