I am born by Caesarian section at 9:30 AM
In Princess Mary's Maternity Hospital
On the 24th May, forty years ago today
Dangled by the ankle, smacked across the bum
Swaddled in a blanket howling like a wheel
My big brother Iain on his tiptoes hisses 'I don't like him'
He's Maradona, I'm Peter Beardsley, chasing a ball through the mud
Followed by the kitchen window bellowing through the fern:
'Boys! Dinner's ready!'
Dad is tuning in the telly beyond a heaving mountain of spaghetti hoops
I am nothing
You are nothing
Nothing important
Death within a dream
Petrified on the back of a pedalo in the Balearic Sea off Alcudia
I can see the ghost of my uncle Derek waving to us from the beach
Gently drifting out of reach
The telephone receiver swinging by its cord
A glass of broken beer expanding on the lino
My mam slips into the coffin
A polaroid of his sweetheart
Clutching Good-Luck Bear I peer gingerly over the side
Press my nose up to the tide
And there behold a barracuda chewing on a chrysanthemum
And a family of clownfish hovering in the corpse's hair
In the scullery of the cub-hut my clarinet falls
Into a sack of flour - a flurry of pins
Squashed into the leather handle
A crescent moon of sleeping fig-wasps
Drizzling my fingers with The Magic Sponge
Dad says 'we'll probably have to chop them off'
He collapses like a canvas tent on the floodlit astroturf
Rent by a fibula guide-rod poking a hole through his shin
There are teardrops in his moustache
Charging a flute of champagne
Down the aisle and out for a throw-in
A St. John's ambulance careers between the sugary pillars of the wedding cake
A crystal spoon
A pewter tankard
These words inscribed upon the base:
"HAPPY RETIREMENT BEST GRANDDAD IN THE WORLD"
A Toby jug filled to the brim with curtain hooks
A sheepskin rug discoloured with tobacco smoke
Within it's braids concealed a rank
Of plastic soldiers set to burst underfoot
Berwick in oils: a skiff on the swollen tweed
Cradling a false pearl
A ceramic seraph
With an ashtray for a brain
- and I don't care about these things
Why do they remain so clear while the faces of my loved ones disappear?
A Rington's plate
A forking hairline seam of superglue through the Black Gate
A digital photo-frame
Frozen on a blurry orange thumb
I don't care about these things
Old karate trophies
I remember all these things
Thimbles and pesetas
I remember all these things
A roll of Woolworth's price stickers
I can see all these things but
Where have all my people gone?
In the end it wasn't meant to be
He was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen
He survived for seven days
Before he slipped away
