He presented the model ship,
sitting it carefully on a footstool,
and we toured the deck together
towards pen-barrel pipes,
past toothpick benches
and matchstick fences.

Larger than life, yet
held in two warm hands.

I traced the brushstrokes of
the oak-brown gloss across
the hull with gentle fingertips, mirroring
every hour of effort, every hour
of time.
My finger lingered over a
patched imperfection.

I saw every grand story play
out before me, a hundred times
smaller, condensed against time.
Hands mimicked the motions of
an ocean, rocking in time
with his melodic memories
as his voice reeled tales
of the youth that
still glimmered
in his dusted eyes

Surrounded in the comfort
of the rippling blue carpet
practiced hands map out the
scenery - a scene I see clearly -
the lighthouse
the navigating star.

On the shrunken hull, behind the
asterix helm, I see a miniscule man
- eyes a pure portion of the
ocean - gazing out at the
watercolour horizon, eyes on
the indication of any
destination lying beyond.

We can never be normal again,
We can never be the same again.
Is that how things were always meant
To be in the end?

I see you in the bathroom mirror
Looking back at me with the same face
Every time I go back
To that place.

Was it ever, really, truly home?
Or the only landmark you know?
Will I ever go back to that room
And talk to you?

Did we actually mean it as a joke?
Or was that the only way we could cope?
Will   I   ever   go   back   to   that   room
                                                            ­       And     talk
                                                            ­                         to     you?

I sit in my Edward Hopper moment, my half started keepacup of green tea cooling,  staring at the chess board floor while my mind slows, moving down the gears after A1-driven shenanigans and I mindfully let the beat of Magic Radio fade back into the 70s while some seldom used lobe recalls a blue wide-wheeled mini van (replete with an A-Team overthetop stripe) on other journeys North.

I close my eyes and focus on the duties and joys of single granddad-hood and try to ignore the give in the one-size-barely-fits-all plastic seating beneath my oversized frame. My eyes refocus and I'm struck by a three-gen family arguing over Burger Kings, and I hate their voices forcing me back to 1984,  RAF Scampton, forcing down a much-too-early, much-too-bleak breakfast ahead of a slow day taking stick from families of maddened miners.

I close my eyes again to breathe my regrets back into place, and I sup and look ahead.

I go back in time
as I get a whiff of some familiar scent.

Like the aroma of spices from my mother’s pulao —- the blend of bay leaves, cinnamon, black cardamom and cloves
that left eyes sparkling in anticipation of a royal meal.

Or the scent of fruits
that made their way into my lunch at school - bananas, apples, grapes, oranges
along with an embroidered napkin
that held onto the smell of the season, the love of parents and the comfort of home.

The tanginess of lemons in my father’s cologne —- a burst of summer every time I opened his closet.

The fragrance of roses from incense sticks that my grandmother would light as she prayed —
the mysticism of life in her folded hands.
The smoke would rise from the sticks, curling, to reach heaven along with her prayers -
and I would look upward wondering if God could hear her songs and smell the roses.

The heady scent of rain and earth as we played in puddles
walking and slipping
splashing and laughing
lost in the moment
hearts as light as those drops of rain.

A whiff of these and I travel back in time
I miss the innocence
and melange of those
happy scents and aromas.

It seems like a different world.
And though far away —
It seems like yesterday.

Bewitching like the Higanbana,
She rocks her hips around
Like the blossoms that sway
As the gush kisses them.
She chants her tune,
Inundating the scene with her melody,
Dragging me into the deepness
of tranquility and isolation.
She looks at me
With her hypnotic eyes,
Pulling me further
Towards her with no effort.
She beams at me,
And the whole world sinks
Underneath her feet,
Like the cigarette stub
That i put out every night.
She looks so serene,
Yet she haunts me dreadfully.

I have flown here
to whisper sweet words
from beyond

the silent voice
blinded by love
and the fluttering of wings

her voice soft and sweet
reciting prose and verse
from old stories of lore

veiled in this mist of heartbreak
no longer yearning for the light
the bells toll, loud and deep into the night

years before, bone and blood
waiting for the false promises of spring
now the seasons just sad recollections

time to leave
fly back among the stars
and fade away