When I was born, there was a counting upon
fingers, until they reached the magic number nine.
My timely arrival put my uncle's
nose out of joint, as I usurped his
status as the family's baby boy.
My father brought in thirty bob a week,
working in a factory all the hours god sent.
We lived in the back bedroom of his
parents' house and I was christened in
the chapel cum scout hut across the road.
We holidayed in caravans on Canvey
Island or The Naze and my dad said he would
retire there to write a book about his life.
A shorter novel than he would have
anticipated, as he died
suddenly, at the age of forty-six.
Is his ambition now mine?
I write these poems, also dreaming
of the sea and hoping to retire.
My office is no factory and my house
boasts more than one room, while I holiday
in luxury at hot spots round the world.
Yet my heart hurts; though it is not angina,
but the acid juice of unripened fruit
plucked too soon from the family tree.
Now I am older than my father, should
I start to feel responsible for him?
Counting down on fingers to
that magic number: zero.
