Slip

 Slip

 

In one of his more lyrical rages

he once muttered about turning pages

and how ripples sail away, away,

never come back – but overlap in fade.

For as long as I can remember,

I know I won’t. Too far from the centre,

with little enough Pritt-Stick left,

no matter how resolutely you press,

you will flutter from my turning leaves,

in dandelion clocks dumb winds seize,

watch the days, the months, the years turn

with little given and nothing learned.

And I should have tried harder,

to fight inside the evils of the father

and how they streak, in thicking blood,

his face in your mirror looking up.

I would have lent you my time,

what little is left, helped you to find

strength that lies unbidden within,

and yet, by the same conceit,

I know your senseless wandering feet

will put distance between ponds

you summoned and the ponds to come,

nothing of me will be left to grow

as your ripples slip and your waters flow.