Talking of a colourless dream
Floating in the pin-stripes, drinks
And speechified air
Is a father: his wound is closed.
The only one who knows it … almost.
There is one other
A boy with a clock ticking
In a tight tie
Checking the walls
His wound is open.
He opens his mouth before his mind
Can bolt the gate and slam the cell
And play a colourless game
Feel a colourless feeling
And talk in a colourless language.
Heart out on the sleeve
Caution to the wind
He capsizes and swims
A cold flood of thoughtfulness
A drowning flood of kindness
A correcting, tidying, mopping flood of darkness.
In one searching, furtive glance
The stricken boy in the crowded room
Swings his searchlight round.
The clock runs down
The eyes meet
The father stumbles and almost drops the catch
Like an ungainly slips fieldsman
The boy smiles inside, happy.
For one, the moment’s lost in a blur of childhood dreams,
But for the other
That furtive glance
Has stamped a fearful mark in the gilded halls of spirit memory.
(Peter Volkofsky. Winter 2006)