Looking out of the kitchen window
Stirring decaf all vaguary-prone and listless
To the lawn, where, this morning,
George, the Alsatian now deceased
Frolicked amongst brambles.
Before he went berserk. Before,
Alas, I had to kick his head in;

I am suddenly eight years old
And lost, in Whitstable Castle.
Around me, humans traipse
And march their aching infants around
Unknowing that I am lost. I cry out:
"Father! Your child is missing,
Father! Do you not notice?
Can you not see?"

My father, however, winds
An unending reel of film
On a now long binned disposable camera
With his thumb. Raking through
Fresh memories, a combing sound
With never a click. His is absorbed,
Cannot hear my cries.