Peladon

 

Peladon

 

When you heard, or maybe read,

in the listings — a small, black inky square

of newsprint that left grubby marks

on wallpaper or skirting boards —

he was to return to Peladon,

and that Monsters would be there,

I saw you wince

as the future imprinted

itself upon your neck in clenched claws.

 

You hurried to the kitchen door

through dark, twisting Winter corridors

where she busied herself about the range,

no doubt — only Ice Warriors, you exclaimed,

but your voice was strange,

as though it spoke of ancient terrors.

 

She shrugged. Took a broom.

Brushed something off — sooty black stuff

that drifted down far enough

to blemish and boot-black her brass coal scuttle.

 

Then I saw you huddled,

peering through a slithering crack,

breathing relief as he takes Sarah-Jane’s hand,

grins, and gets the hell out.

I think you missed your Grandma,

wished she had appeared, settled,

to rub the dock leaves on the nettles.

 

Later — and you’re older now,

far from there — penning fountains

in naïve strokes, broadsides with a broad nib,

condescending, just a little glib,

with new concerns, new ideas,

some you almost understood,

growing forests from the chopped wood

in colour-separation overlay,

over-the-shoulder points of view

inside a three-camera studio —

and this is how we grew.

 

But small in gain and big in loss,

nobody warned you that Winter frosts

would rime your brow,

hoar your hair,

and I should have shouted — beware!

It brought the Dreams

that make you turn and toss,

hurl desolate pillows to the floor

that, in the morning, lie grounded there

as hobbled wings, as scrapbook clippings,

while you reach back to embrace

all that cannot be replaced —

and I remember how,

when we were young,

we were scared to return to Peladon.