SLOW DANCING
A long time away from home;
too much needing to be said,
and so, after smiles and silence,
Dad began to talk about the War:
Home Guard manoeuvres
on the common, chucking
hand grenades at concrete blocks;
and Mum remembering the doodlebugs
that split the ceiling, shedding
plaster on the lodger’s bed
the day before he flew in
from Johannesburg on leave.
The central heating clicks,
the autumn evening clogs
the windows and it seems
as if old leaves will bank
against the doors. But memory rings,
pure as a struck glass and
a sort of luminescence pushes
the shadows back. Clocks stop
in their tracks. Invisible, unbodied
like a wireless ghost, I hear
faint music and the tread
and slide of dancing feet
in some abandoned ballroom.
Now I am a guest between
the sideboard and the books
along the wall, whose patient
stillness framed my childhood,
watching them both slow-dancing
back towards the days of
ancient light, their dream-time.
