In your granddad’s bookcase
was a book you liked
with a blue hardback cover
with German warplane

pictures in it
and you loved to study
the photographs
even though

the words
were too big
or long
for you to read

and on that Sunday
you sat
while the parents talked
and studied

the bookcase
hoping your granddad
would get it out for you
if he saw you

looking that way
long enough
but the parents talked
and the grandparents

listened or talked too
and the book stayed put
in the bookcase
and you stared

and counted the books
on either side
taking in
the various colours

and sizes
on the shelves above
and below
and how neat

they were placed
and tidy
and well polished
it all was

but the book
kind of attracted you
with its German warplanes
with the Swastikas

on the wings and sides
and some pictures
had Spitfires
and Lancaster bombers

with red white and blue
on the sides and wings
but that Sunday
Granddad didn’t

get out the book
and hand it to you.

I wear
your grey
woollen mittens,
the ones

you can make
into gloves
by pulling over
the fingers

to make complete;
soft, thick,
but warm; neat.
I can sense you near

with them on;
an imaginary pulse
moves along
beside mine.

You felt the cold;
although didn't say
as such
or not

over much;
your hands
and fingers
seeking shelter

within the wool,
rubbing against
the fibre, skin
on softness,

warmth like
a kind of drug,
seeping in.
I wear your grey

woollen mittens,
my fingers fitting
where yours once did,
the feel of you

in the wool's soft memory;
the fibre’s hold,
keeping you warm,
my son,

keeping to warm
against the cold.
The mittens seem fresh;
not worn thin or aged

or coming unwoven
as some things do.
I wear your grey mittens,
have them close,

neat and touching.
I wish they were you.

I kept your last
birthday card to me;
tucked it between
books on my shelf,

not knowing then
it would be the last;
your small simple script
and name, artwork done,

received with all the rest
that day, last year.
I have taken it out
a few times now,

read the script over
and over, as if maybe,
more words
might appear,

than those before.
I hold it in my hands
and imagine where
your fingers touched,

where your pen
scribed the words,
and for that frozen moment
capture part of you again,

that feel, that ghostly smell,
thinking maybe
my fingers are, where
your fingers were,

your DNA mixing with mine,
mixing together
like good scotch, not wine.
I shall keep

your birthday card to me,
keep it safe, re-read
now and then,
pretend each year

it came from you,
anew, fresh written,
your fine small hand;
waiting each birthday

for it to land,
the birthday card
from my eldest son
(now dead), and when

my birthday comes around
once more, I shall take
the card out and read
with all the rest that came,

keeping you you always
in my heart and head,
with your small scribed,
loving name.

I found your old
wrist watch
amongst your things;
strap worn, unstitched,

the face of the watch
stopped at a given time,
metal touched with grime.
Don't know when

you wore it last,
but I guess your being
still tingles along the vibes,
despite the years gone by.

I wonder if you
chopped up your day
by it, wonder what hours
you set aside for play,

what for work or sleep?
You're dead now, so that
information will have to keep,
the hours spent, the moments

slipped by in the blink
of a human eye, the ticking
watch ticking off
the time allotted you,

your span set out,
the final year
mapped out maybe,
for none to know or see.

I hold your watch,
allow the sense of you
to come through
the metal workings,

silver cast, leather strap;
the sense of you
pulsing as I wear it
briefly on my wrist;  

the back of the watch
and my skin touching
as if kissed. I will put
the wrist watch away,

in some drawer, for
another, some day,
but it is you, my son,
that is wanted, that’s missed.

Your mother's washed
your red patterned
woollen jumper,
the Christmas one
we call it, as that
was when
you wore it last.

She hung it on
a wooden hanger
in the hall to dry.

Seeing it there,
silent and empty,
opened in me
a deeply wounded,
unuttered cry.

Later when dry,
I took it down
to turn
the right way in
and fold,
then pressed against
my cheek and chest
to hold,
as if
for a moment
you were there again,
your beating heart,
your pulse of life,
your solid being,
but I knew you weren't,
just the coloured wool,
the red patterned jumper,
that just been washed scent.

I thought you immortal;
how sad that is,
that illusion love made,
that you will always be there, lie,
that you will
never never die.

I clutched
the jumper tight;
tried to sense you there,
your pounds of flesh,
your gentle self,
your body
within the wool.

How sad that is,
they'll say,
the old sad fool.

Your mother washed
and dried your
red patterned
woollen jumper
yesterday, today
I placed it on
a plastic hanger
and put away.

Your shirts
hang drying
that we washed,
my son.

I recall you
wearing them,
each
and every one.

They hang there
lonesome now,
sad relics
of your wardrobe,
cast-offs
of a life
gone too soon,
cut short,
live long after me,
I thought.

I like the patterns,
the colours, too,
but on seeing them,
I’m remembered sadly,
of lovely you.

I sniff
along the cloth,
feel the buttons
that you once
did up, undid,
your fingers touch
and hug and feel,
the pain, of that,
too much.

The shirts hang
innocent, unaware,
lifeless, unworn
and cold,
I can feel them,
but want you
to hold.

Maybe I’ll wear the shirts
to give them back
some life,
some warmth,
fill them out,
give them body
to embrace,
pretend to them
I’m you,  
act out the lie,
not reveal to them,
not tell them,
I watched you die.

You and your sister
found a pigeon
on the grass
outside Banks House

which couldn’t fly
and so you took it up
the concrete stairs
to your mother

and your sister said
it can’t fly
what shall we do?
it can stay the night

your mother said
but in the morning
you must take it
to the police station

and leave it with them
and so you found
a cardboard box
and placed the bird in

with a small bowl of water
and some broken up bread
and left it
in the lounge

over night
and you could hear its sound
and movement
as it walked around

the box
and in the morning
it was still alive
and looked at you both dully

and so after breakfast
you took the bird
to the police station
and the police officer said

what have we here then?
a pigeon
your sister said
it can’t fly

oh I see
the police officer said
in mock surprise
can’t fly ok

leave it with me
and we will contact
the appropriate people
to deal with the issue

and so you did
and on the way home
your sister said
I hope it will be all right

and have a new home
and you said
yes I’m sure it will
but with a mischievous look

in your eye
thinking
but not saying
in somebody’s pie.

Your worth
not in flowers

or tombstone's depth
or height,

but in the heaviness
of the heart,

the haunting look
from old photos.

I dreamed of you,
not as last,

but younger,
child-like,

wanting to caress.
I search for you

among the tall grass
and bright flowers.

I recall
your last words,

final hours.

You, Yiska, you-
eyes,
plums,

settled in cream,
soft,
gazed there,

new worlds,
and lips,
barely touching,

edge of Paradise,
skin on skin,
warm, wet,

pressed.
Yiska, you-
hands,

******* fingers,
you there,
your thighs,

dress raised,
summery,
birds searching

out the sky,
I,
seeking bird-like,

to fly high.
You, Yiska, you-
I dreamed of you,

night searching,
sky darkening,
moon's oil,

stars exploding
in eyes
from window's view,
you,
Yiska,
you.

You have seen flowers fade,
Grown men falter, hard rain
Against bedroom windows,

Felt the numbness of the still
Born babe, sensed the slap
Across the face from Mother’s

Hand, felt the wind of time
Finger your hair, your lover’s
Kiss dry on the brow. You have

Known the hammer blows of
Love, the silence of the night
Alone, the empty bed of lust,

The tiredness at dawn. You
Sought unconditional love,
But found only the love with

Strings attached, with a price
Tag on the gift of love and touch
And maybe promises. You have

Felt the dead baby fall, the womb
Ring empty in the troubled nights,
The poxed phallus between the

Thighs, the sour kisses of long
Betraying love. You have played
Bach until the ears bled, played

Cards with a drowned woman,
Dreamed of the sister you never
Had, dreamed of the baby you

Lost, felt the baby **** on the
Dug, sensed the dream fade to
A dead baby’s coffin. You sleep

And you wake, you want to live
And want to die, you want to be
Forever young, a perpetual mother,

A constant lover, an untroubled
Daughter, not be lonely, left in
The dark, sacrificed on someone’s

****** altar. You are and am not,
Born to be, then left to rot, you
Want your mother’s embrace,

Want certainty, want undying
Love, God’s redeeming grace.

You have seen flowers fade,
Grown men falter, hard rain
Against bedroom windows,

Felt the numbness of the still
Born babe, sensed the slap
Across the face from Mother’s

Hand, felt the wind of time
Finger your hair, your lover’s
Kiss dry on the brow. You have

Known the hammer blows of
Love, the silence of the night
Alone, the empty bed of lust,

The tiredness at dawn. You
Sought unconditional love,
But found only the love with

Strings attached, with a price
Tag on the gift of love and touch
And maybe promises. You have

Felt the dead baby fall, the womb
Ring empty in the troubled nights,
The poxed phallus between the

Thighs, the sour kisses of long
Betraying love. You have played
Bach until the ears bled, played

Cards with a drowned woman,
Dreamed of the sister you never
Had, dreamed of the baby you

Lost, felt the baby **** on the
Dug, sensed the dream fade to
A dead baby’s coffin. You sleep

And you wake, you want to live
And want to die, you want to be
Forever young, a perpetual mother,

A constant lover, an untroubled
Daughter, not be lonely, left in
The dark, sacrificed on someone’s

****** altar. You are and am not,
Born to be, then left to rot, you
Want your mother’s embrace,

Want certainty, want undying
Love, God’s redeeming grace.