A Clockwise Direction (revised)

[penguin]

Revised version

A Clockwise Direction

I found that long lost wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room.
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is -
I try to read very little into that.
There are layers of dust upon dust in the loft
and a guaranteed insulation
if I pass over the smaller print.

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P;
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
All my books are in alphabetical order,
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
always in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath.

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door:
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake?

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe I’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke I’m laughing at.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks dispatched in ‘88 .
As we’re cutting the cake, your face
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in
and reach out to touch an amputation -
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died.





Original version


I found the last remaining wedding photo
behind a doll in our daughter’s room.
Russian, as it happens, the doll that is,
though I read very little into that;
there are layers of dust upon dust in the loft
and I’m loathe to consider conversion
at this late stage in the game.

I placed it on the bookshelf where O meets P;
I’d have liked it before your favourite author
but her shelf’s too close to the ground.
My books are in alphabetical order;
I wake at 7 to clean and tidy
each day in a clockwise direction -
starting at the front door and ending in the bath.

I compare it to my parents’ wedding picture
that’s hanging next to the dining room door;
they had a bigger cake, more friends and relations,
dressed black and white, a formal occasion;
contemplative, no eye for the camera.
My mother’s fatter in the face than I remember,
and isn’t that an ashtray beside the cake?

Blow these pictures up out of proportion
and maybe we’d spot the germ of a future:
leukaemia, cancer, emphysema,
buried deep within a Russian doll.
How happy we appear! My Mum said never
had I looked so handsome, like Richard Gere;
perhaps that’s the joke we’re laughing at.

Behind us I trace the faintest whisper
of the tower blocks blown in ’88.
As we’re cutting the cake, your face
burns with embarrassment
or anticipation of the sauce to come.
I can feel the grip that you have on my arm,
as if I might be the first to depart.

When lights fade I think I can hear you breathing,
but it’s central heating or a noise in the loft.
I close the windows to keep your scent in,
I reach out to touch an amputation;
I said we shouldn’t buy a bed this wide.
You never see pictures taken at funerals
unless somebody important has died.