Lynn White

With Open Eyes

I have my eyes open now

and I can see the sky 

framed

by debris,

by rocks,

by wire,

by dereliction.

Framed 

by sharpness and

impenetrable barriers.

I want to see it clear,

like I remember

when my eyes were closed

clear and unblemished

creamy white

and pink and blue.

I want want to see it

framed by trees,

I want to see

the rocks become

flowers 

again.

I want to go back to

where the birds are singing

breaking up the sky with flight.

Does it still exist, this place?

I don’t think so.

Will it ever exist again?

I must believe so.

First published Typescript, 2019

I Remember My Father

I remember my father.

Remember being carried high 

on his shoulders when

he was walking into town.

I remember that I was scared.

I had never been carried

on shoulders before.

Was there a bus strike

or no money for the fare?

That I don’t remember.

I remember my father

sitting in a chair, a passenger

on a bus or tram,

as I collected his fare

and gave him a ticket.

He drove trams once

and then later he cleaned them.

I remember my father.

Remember sitting on his knee

looking at Rupert Bear books.

I knew the stories by heart

so people thought I could read

and were very impressed.

But I could only remember.

I remember my father.

I don’t need photographs

to jog my memory,

which is just as well

since there are none,

None of him whole, anyway, 

just one of his legs

in loose grey trousers,

sitting by me as I planted seeds

in my first garden.

First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, November 2015

Do You Remember

Do you remember when

the future stretched endlessly ahead,

when the older looked forward 

to a contented retirement

and the younger

to all the joys of life and living.

Now the mists are down

swamping everyone 

in a gloomy miasma

and the future is closing in

moving closer and closer,

a cell-like structure

of mutating cells.

First published in Lion and Lilac, spring 2022