Dazzle

 

Dazzle

 

On a March morning, it’s almost warm,

with a dazzling sun to tint my glasses,

which is pretty useful, I suppose,

because iced moisture bothers my nose

until I serve an offhand, backhand swipe,

and, look, he’s full of tennis.

It was his first lesson yesterday,

so, Grandad, have I heard of ghosting?

He won, he calls, no sense of boasting,

tosses it at me, just puts up a lob,

only can I watch, next time I’m home?

That dripping nose again. You feel alone.

 

Still, I grab his shoulders in a manly tussle,

and wrestling wild, he pushes back,

next generation but one’s soft attack

of friendly fire, all skirmish and scuffles.

He’s older, against frost tightly zipped

in a bright orange thick quilted anorak.

Buoyant in this life preserver, yes,

just like Marty McFly in last night’s flick:

He said he liked it, weathered it at least,

stray eye on phone like a guilty thief.

His coat is ripped and his mum warned

don’t dare wear it tomorrow, it’s torn,

but he has it on now, outside school.

 

I hug him longer than is super cool

when you’re nearly ten, ruffle his head,

remember all those words we’ve said

on this day. He’s tie-dyed, grey, streaked,

because, you know, it’s mad-hair day,

and, of course, why wouldn’t it be?

I listen to those last words he speaks,

throttle syllables about not being ages

until Summer turns Spring’s pages

and there’ll be a new bike, at any rate.

He leaps like a salmon after his mates

swift as a swallow, sprints up the hill;

my sun dazzled glasses tint further yet,

which is pretty damn useful:

I can’t blame rain if my cheeks get wet.