poem - 2017 034 Dandelion Clocks

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.