Signature

Signature

 

These are the days

a moment can take you flash sideways,

in the hanging space between

this tick and that,

summed up by a minor sentence,

suspended

in preparation and resolution.

 

A word struck, a thought stuck —

my imitation, his indignation,

then stagnation:

‘You stole that from me.’

And I had.

 

I’d copped the rolling R,

the way it soared and swooped,

the A, the P,

intricate and linked,

fountaining ink —

knew I was due one on the knuckles

and ducked.

 

‘You didn’t think,’ he’d thunder —

this Augustus, muscles flexed,

maybe seize me by the neck,

boot arse for good measure,

then yomp up small mountains.

 

My signature was a pale impersonation,

a Mike Yarwood, a Little and Large;

he'd grab chainsaw, sledgehammer, axe,

feel put upon to have me at his back —

but I suppose I served.

 

These are the days

to remember a father’s cursive scrawl —

it strode ahead, stood tall —

but now it’s hardly there at all,

iced air that dispersed hot breath,

only an impression is left.