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I would reach out a hand to take my son’s
hand.
I would swivel a knee to dandle him.
Like calling througth a fog,
caught in the deep grass which quickens
round my legs up here at the top of creation.
I would pass the years through a gold skimming pan,
picking out the flecks for the rush.
I would reach my hand across the years
to find his arm to pick him up.
Hard bread for the palate. Liquid, too hot for the lips.
A map of a demolished town.
I would melt the gold like the fool I am. Spread the leaf
over stones and leaves. I might plate the breadth of England,
and still find myself wanting to reach him, without a clue
of what I would say.
I have seldom been so aware of a poet
working through to a discovery of their own voice as I have
been during the process of putting together this book with
John Siddique. The poems dance between countries and through
relationships, backwards and forwards in time. There are
poems about work, family, love and loss, friendship and sensuality,
and about both urban and rural landscapes: but all the time
there is the sense of the poet’s mind striving both
for words and shape and to find a way to let the reader see
the world from his particular and unique point of view. Michael Mackmin
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