A Lustrum At Druslyn Road
I woke into memory
a little old man,
not a child in that incline
garden with the brook
where our Siamese Achilles wrestled next door's Hector
and shortly after his only bath deserted.
At half past dawn he crept in fen-
drained by a dog fox fang
and we swaddled him and prayed. I played the doctor.
Behind the fence with its honeycomb
of air at the edge of the known world
a Scottie lurked, to uphill-hurtling me
the size of a bullmastiff...
The ruined concrete foundation
of boxer kennels was our Lords plinth.
My bat was plastic, strawberry pink
with a crystalline, ripe 'tunk' when I Bradmaned dolly-drops.
One frail and gilded morning Dad
pobbled home from hospital
and unveiled toes hued
out of Stanley Gibbons, magenta, indigo...
old man and a child.