02 December 2008

Baby In Blue

It's always somebody's birthday; this poem was written on my birthday, a hundred years ago, or last week. I was getting old. Now, thank goodness, I am getting young, going backwards in years in a thrilling regeneration of self. I may be a medical miracle. I may have spent too much time alone. Whatever the reason, I now have a rather skewed concept of time. I don't look at the watch, I just watch the lines on my face as they read their story. Anyway: on to "Baby in Blue", for all you birthday boys and girls lamenting one year closer to death. Talking of death, I encourage you all to consider your own mortalities by including a picture of myself in a corset.

The sun hasn't arrived yet, nor the
Post: this evening of my youth is going to
Be a long day. I'm in red baby clothes,
Stretched to fit this elongated
Form, sucking my thumb and
Remembering photos of me in this
Outfit in blue twenty years ago.
As time creates a film of dew across
My face, I am the morning sun, I am
The invisible years that scud and shoot
And shudder across the gaping
Blue arc hanging off the day that ticks back,
Forth, already moved along like a succession
Of loud clicking silver ball-bearings.
Moving along with it, I am crushed and
Held by the future evening sun, a
Figure dangling in space confused by time.
I am on this day the wholeness and emptiness
Of it all, the tread of torchlight on frost,
A baby in blue, fist clenched round this memory.

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