White Jigsaw
You come here with a jigsaw
the colour of clouds,
tranquil, like milk in alcohol,
but filled with the brilliant
white of sunlight.
You’re going to let me down
and leave me flat.
The mist at Bamburgh’s lifting:
across the long sands
the tide is riffling a tune.
Three buckets and spades,
waiting. Maud, Lily and Kate.
Drop that and get on deck.
You’re wearing a ring
in the daft shape of a duck.
Meticulous, tetchy,
your fingers are filled with string, you’ve been
shopping for Christmas
the year after the year
after next.
Wake up, I’ve got something
to say to you. Stay with me.
You’re everywhere and nowhere baby,
that’s where you’re at.
We play The Birthday Cakewalk
by Russ Conway, at 78 r.p.m.
and race round the chesterfield
laughing like loons.
Our boat nudges through weed
in the jungle shade. Our faces
are streaked with mud. We screech
at the leeches, the leeches.
Both of us are nominated
for Oscars.
Throw the dice, and move
the boat, the dog, the ship:
monopoly, totopoly,
tri-tactics. The games
will persist, days, weeks,
months and years.
You laugh like a drain,
and clap your hand to your head
like a pirate.
I’ve got something to say
that’ll cause you pain.
Guess what, you ask.
I’ll be losing my eye,
I’m pregnant. I’ve landed
on Mayfair.
You’re like our grandmother,
lying there serene, on
the white bed in Bart’s.
There is a twinkle
in your eye
the size of a laugh.
Clare, the last thing you said
to me was
Night Night Daddy.
There is a Dégas ballerina
dancing above your bed.
The jigsaw sits on the table,
neat and tidy,
as with consummate skill
you fill each space,
your fingers finicking
the spindrift of white
into a wild, inviolate sky.
A glass of wine. Here.
You can’t do that. The light
is intense, it is linen,
it is Antarctic, it is
razzle-dazzling. I
love you. Here it is, Clare, it is
the last, impossible piece.
