The Duke of York wore seashell bangles,
his cheap bootlace amulets the trinket
summary of a lifetime's achievements.
That elderly queen with beer in his eyes,
barefoot and sporting a fur-hooded coat,
rings on his fingers and bells on his toes,
smiled a rueful smile of Cabaret days.
You saw soft hands whilst, oddly, I saw trade,
the thick paws of a boatman with hard lines.
You saw a desk job and I saw the boards,
no longer trodden with sons and lovers.
You saw his life in a bag, and looked away,
and I saw the first time we met, still here,
different lights, but the engine roar the same.
Behind white balustrades and flowered iron,
in smoke and noise from the City's finest,
he varnished his hands and feet with cherries,
still hoping on nineteen sixty-nine and
Woodstock dreams of the boy in plaid he told
his friends he fucked but hardly even held.
We left, but looked back, grateful for new days.
YOU ARE READING
A Wrong Turn
PoetryA collection of poems that chart a relationship from its genesis to its failure and beyond.
