Dandelion Clocks
One o'clock, two...
the way your lips sent
dandelion seeds to the winds
left me almost
breathless with desire,
the way you blew
bubbles
into your dandelion and
burdock
and trailed your hand
through the hair-like
algae on the canal.
My sister's clothes fit
all too well,
those dresses cast off
into the jumble bags
the kiss of silk and
fur,
scented powder on my
cheeks and eyelids.
My father never
understood;
relegated Otherness to
baser terms –
poof and queer and
Mary-John;
the slur of separation
relegated to roadside lavvies
and punishments meted
out
by balaclava men with
Backing Britain badges
who ambushed a Paki at
the back of the garage
and bragged about it in
the pub.
I took a few knocks,
too,
“Been in the wars
again?” the nurse would ask,
but which one? None
as deadly as the one
inside my ginger pate
remembering the silks
and furs
in my dead mother's
wardrobe,
and the way you told
the time.
