#amwriting #poem #poetry Black Sheep

Black Sheep

I hadn't been here - since in that hot summer
when mother cut fish-paste into sandwiches
and bundled us into the car. And forgetting
how annoyed you were with me, or me with you,
we plucked ourselves in the cold waves
that sent us dancing to the sand. No scowls there.
Just tales of lost sailors. And feet running
barefoot around discarded cans, and serviettes
of ice creams, still pink and brown and yellowed,
and a single white paper bag, that once held sherbet,
spinning, and flipping on the ridges of the tide.

But oh how we catch ourselves. A black tooth here
and there something which cannot be forgiven,
until, waking one morning you guess - for who is really sure -
that it is ten years since we spoke last. Of course
we mean to, but forgetting birthdays becomes a habit,
like hypochondria, or finding pine cones in a coat pocket.

And it all becomes smoothed out, when queuing
for some wine and biscuit, on the ringed rubber matting,
while the game retired music mistress from the prep school
paddles away at Bach. So many dinners dodged and missed.