SMILING GHOSTS ON THE DRIVE

A narrative poem this week, a story I heard many years ago and thought, at the time, would make a good poem.

It hinges, I suppose on the naive idea that things remain unchanging-even though we do not see them for many years. It’s the image that exiles have of their homeland that bears no relation to reality, as though frozen on the day that they left.

All the emotional details I made up. I wanted the adult in the poem to be changed by the visit.

My father drove the borrowed car,

red and shiny.

the vinyl seat stuck to my legs,

heat clouding round my feet.

The house was inside my head,

my father had talked it into existence

our dream estate described.

Now we see the gate posts,

then the drive bends to reveal

nothing...

Smooth green mounds,

a sense of space and sky.

No geography,

he walks this ground adrift.

How can this house have gone,

and me not have heard?

Eventually he stops.

Silently, we drove the way we had come.

My father changed after that.

Hugged me and my sister more,

seemed to labour over his tales,

talked only of times we had shared.

I found a photograph,

creased, yellowed,

in his wallet,

after his death,

of the front of a house.

Smiling ghosts on the drive.

I am not sure how well it works. This is an earlier draft:

My father drove the borrowed car,

Red and shiny.

The vinyl seat stuck to my legs,

Heat clouding round my feet.

The house was inside my head,

The house my father had talked of

All through my life,

Our dream estate described

Then we saw the gate posts,

Now the drive bends to reveal

Nothing..........

Smooth green mounds,

A sense of space and sky.

No geography, he walks this ground adrift,

Mutters: “How can this house have gone,

And me not have heard?”

Eventually he stops.

Silently, we drove the way we had come.

  

My father changed after that.

Hugged me and my sister more,

Seemed to labour over his tales,

Talked only of times we had shared.

After his death I found a photograph

Of a house in his wallet,

Creased, yellowed.

Smiling ghosts on the drive.

There are a number of differences between the two versions. The second was published in my first collection burning Music – now long out of print, though I keep saying I am about to publish it as an ebook. Watch this space…

Here is Annabelle Chvostek singing A Piece of You. I was trying to load her singing This Machine from the other night in Totnes-but it won't let me for some reason...