Mark Gallacher
Male line
My baby son leaves a trail of lost things.
Today for example, we cycled
against a murderous winter storm.
When we reached the little nursery his gloves were gone.
Fallen somewhere I guess, along our journey.
Going back alone, the gloves worried me.
As if my son was casting off existence.
That night the day surfaced in a dream:
My father’s bones wind chimed as they spun.
My gloveless boy dangled from his seat.
The stars wheeled. The sky screamed.
More speed! More speed!
I pedalled so fast rubber burned.
I see us still, disintegrating on the run.
Page(s) 53
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