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All night Tippi and I lie with our armswrapped around each otherlike rope.I bury my face in her neckand she wakes every now and thento kiss the top of my head
I have been here once before – It was a long time ago, I don't remember when.But as my father handed me the axe-headImages exploded in my brain.
He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
Dada taught me cards.Sitting in his suit of pants and vest.A fistful of joker-red hair strewn across his brow.His big belly like a cannon ball.
Speak kindly to your little boy
And hug him when he cries.
Add kisses, kindness, time and love
Teach him to be wise.
Speak softly to your little girl
Dada has stories from Calcuttawrapped up in his big belly.When he belched they would unravel.
Your mother made me
just in case, she said,
which kinda freaked me out,
so I said to her,
Da Man is fine, babe.
I know you don't get it
the pleasure I feel
when I push down the pedal
the turn of the wheel
the buzz of the sander
the whirl of the drill
Nell drives and we don’t speak.
Every limb is numb
My mind is racing
and then slow.
Kicking the pebbles along Eastbourne beach
as the orange-pink of sunset
plays with the ebbing tide,
my mother asks…