Photographers
Other LivesThe quiet clock roomsmells of polish in Yorkshireas...
Monty Rakusen Photographers BlogOther Lives
The quiet clock room
smells of polish in Yorkshire
as my grandfather who I’ve never seen
makes the watch.
Shining gold it’s chain curled in his hand.
My mother who I don’t remember.
Sings Sur la Pont in her mother tongue
wraps me tight in blankets and through the chequered panes
against a blank sky, flakes of snow fall.
My father now so distant
sits with me on the bench
under the Chestnut tree.
Holds my hand.
Removes his spectacles
and wipes the tears with a clean handkerchief.
The gallop of hooves, the orange of torches in the snow.
The glistening decks of ocean liners
rolling on the swell.
Never to go to the shadow of liberty
but the taste of dust in Dublin.
My relatives are gone and lost.
Those dark and cloaked peasant farmers
crouched in snow and blinding wind
on the flat lands of the Baltic.
It is as if I had stumbled out
beyond the borders of my dreams
and saw them shadowy before me
from their other lives.
I wish them here.
