LOOKING BACK

Retrospection, feeble cousin of anticipation,

Highlights only the passed-away folly
Wrapped in tissue of lies of success.
A self-made hero blowing his trumpet
In the pit of the brass of a second rate band,
Lead in the hem of a dangerous dress.
 
The truth, the root of every noble thing
This black and white, merged in sullen grey
Of half itself, a compensating potion,
Lies in baskets, compressed by lies
Giving mock salute to what is true,
Dressed in the garb of every foolish notion.
 
The apples were sweeter, the bread was browner,
The bacon had flavour,  they say
To us who could scarcely contest
This over-the-shoulder, those were the days
Of eight month summers, a touch of frost,
Only swaddling babes wore a vest.
 
The horizontal ones were all famous too
Until they were silent and out of the game
And reach or lament of but widow or son,
For funerals and coffins are about undertakers,
My mother a saint and father a patriot,
Eight black and tans scuttled by grandfather’s gun.
 
And Monday was wash-day, clothes-line a mile
Of terylene nappies as white as new snow
And coarse shirts and long johns and quilt.
Fingers red-raw from wash-board and wringing
Varicose veins and peg in the lip
Expecting and carrying yet-to-come guilt.
 
Maybe he’ll grow up to make a fine priest
And give me his very first blessing
In front of the whole of the parish, I pray,
And shoo me through the gates of Saint Peter
Of papacy, mitre and slow-cooker eyes
No cover charge, no toll to pay.

Look forward in hope, forget the here present
No glory in what has never occurred
Forget the neglect, the torture, the pain.
And when we’re not certain of tension or tense
That is now or round the next bend,
Always look over your shoulder again.