I wrote this for my son about 10 years ago.
I threw you high and laughed at your delight,
and higher still, till fear, sleek in it’s disguise,
stole time in handfuls and we stopped.
Or I did.
Heading for home our Spitfires, all pencil ‘tash
and lady killers, flew raids into head-on winds
with dipping wings, and us,
Hangared, you blew zoot on your kazoo, dropped
into my suit, big as the Albert Hall, and
hung before hanging, cool
beyond your years.
You honed your childhood’s clarity. Chose early.
The first crocus, you knew
where the sky was,
which route to take,
how the land lay.
Bird blew bebop but Miles drew blood
You kick back to the click track
tip the spit from your horn and lay way back
playin’ it long, boy, till it all soun’ black
ain’t it a pity the city
don’t blow back
The wind skinned the first crocus on the Turnberry coast.
The curling sea called
I am here.