Legacy
My
father
was not a man
for letting go
the
shallow and nefarious
mistook this for a passion
but there was neither warmth or light in what he kindled
he
thrived on his many resentments
Angus, my father
on this illusion of tenacity
the
smallest sacrifice brought great clamour to our home
a great wash of the shipwrecked and the drowned
with their breath of rotting kelp
yet
my mother
surrendered her life to him
and I much more, in silence
it
is the way of such men
and they will come to expect
a little more each day
they
are men unwilling to grow
yet yearn for something bigger
so they steal our time, our innocence
it
is a lesson
my father branded on my spine
before my voice had even broken
the
true meaning of sacrifice
is to eschew the man
who names its price
my
father taught me this
that
and to listen out for the creaking door
for the bent nail in the timbers
Mines
Such
a lot of tosh
is being bandied about
says a man who will never don khaki
such
a lot of women
he titters
grasping the rail with his ringless fingers
I
believe he is trying to comfort me
to allay my fears
hrrmphs whenever my gaze drifts over the waves
it
is a new and unsettling sensation
the effect my uniform has
on such men
where
once I was Imperial henchman
now I am saviour of the British race
and I find myself longing for the widows’ steely glances
the
Germans are close, he tells me
thrusting his proud nose up at the sky
they have their eye on us
an
hour south of Bermagui
the claxton sounds, the engines slow
arms flail at an orange glow to the east
it
soon slides into the brooding swell
and a frigate rounds us in a figure-of-eight
barking at us to be on our way
mines
the captain yells in broken English
offering me his stiff Japanese salute
I
have not seen my friend since then
he has asked to move cabins
further astern, above the drum of the engines
I
am sure it is as close
as he will ever come to this war
the panic of claxtons, a few sinister rainbows of blood and oil
but
I felt him watching me until my eyes began to water
The Narrow Room
In
the narrow room
with its crimp of grease and rusty pipes
where the sparrows always lose their way
I
am asked about his mood
what we talked about
with the expressions of children poking at the dead
he
behaved like an officer
I tell them
and for the first time I realise how little we said
they
seem to fumble
for the right words
they are all so civilised
they
cannot take a step
without thinking
what will I do now
they
would not understand the silences
the dead sparrow on the path
how much he aged when he closed his eyes
he
is not like other men
with their undying need to explain themselves
as though they had woken in the wrong house
rather
I felt like the intruder
glimpsing half-movements through a crack in the door
did
he mention his father
sister is mouthing a word
but it is lost in a fuss of lips and teeth
I
want to tell them
about the sound he carries within him
like the whoosh of a swooping bird
it
would not be a lie
but it would be misleading
to speak of such things in isolation
The
Finding
In
this case
time, not truth, will play my hand
death by misadventure
there
is no doubt
in my mind
but of what the Lord knows
glances
where there should be bruises
whispers over the bleached floors
the sheetless bed, the restless corpse
I
have seen nothing like it
and I am aggrieved that he
could be so confident of this
fists
clenched so tight
they had to break the knuckles
blood under the nails, pustules on the larynx
Africa,
she said
as though watching a bird
fly out the window
well
my sense is Africa
will have his measure
there
is a piece
of that girl missing
I have seen her type before
skulking
below stairs
with a laugh like a razor
and eyes as narrow as keyholes
Justin
Lowe
©
Justin Lowe 2006
Bluepepper
poetry blog
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