On the Grace of Strangers
(for Clifton)
I fell down the cracks trying to reach
you
off the ship where the breadfruit
bounced
on the waves as your dark
skin
braced for the chilblains and a
wisp
of a lass taught you how to smoke and gloat that the
skinheads
couldn't have your girl.
More than a
gas
fire's mottled bars kept you warm in
Yorkshire.
Fingers fifteen years away from
callouses
and manual labour, twenty-one
years
away from stripping cable for
copper
in your garage with your daughter whose skinny legs chased
sticks
down Bradford beck.
On the grace of
strangers
I saw you hide your eyes and keep smart with your mum, Rosa’s sewing
kit
six years away from your mother- in- law's button
tin and lard- baked apple pie.
Why so fast, catch your
collar
from the future, feel your 'tash and the drum of your
fingers
impatient for what's next.
What's next, the town
hall
has a museum for the plods who chased
you not them
down Lumb Lane, queer to pay to
view
the mothballed costumes of your antagonists who found out you could
sprint
dart, decoy back to a miner's terrace with your dear ones waiting and a
yard
full of rats.