Meteor-Write (11th Dec 2008, 9.10pm)
Blaze, mistaken shooting star,
through the layers of who we are;
atmospheric, night-sky wrecker;
tennis ball struck by Boris Becker
searing my retina with a blue line,
impregnating the conscious mind
with questions, alien being-bringer,
as I run up dresses on her Singer.
My father telescopes horizons,
picks out the bestest, brightest
constellations; the United Nations
couldn’t plan for these permutations.
This is how I think that I was born;
in a fire-coated landing on the lawn,
hazing through the years of light
like a tea-tray in the sky at night;
you wore brown and orange swirls,
dropped the Cointreau on the tiles;
fluorescent kitchen glow was seen
for miles; six years lost my spleen.
Mother, mother, cling-film queen,
I still fall asleep when you read aloud,
safe within sound; the Archers theme
suspends me in shock. Explain the scene.
I see your fear and I’ll raise you,
in some reflected time-warp, fifty pence;
the Tooth Fairy claimed your cash,
but none of my teeth equalled your splash.
Meteorite, crashing inside my life;
I twist my great respect into pitted words
and write to take a hold on Life: yours.
Who knows how much I need you for?
Jennifer Pickup
