Picture
This You come into focus most clearly
on windy Mondays,
Grandad’s shirt sleeves applauding on the line,
curtains
boiling at windows. Your cheeks, normally pale,
slapped red by sudden
gusts; I see you bending,
stiff-backed, to retrieve a peg or yank a dandelion,
then your apron snarls itself up and your dress
lifts sharply to reveal
the tops of stockings pinching
mottled thighs. I can hold you there for several
seconds
until your hair escapes its pins and
leaves you blurred.
from The
Butcher’s Hands
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