So many London journeys have the smell of death.

So often funerals or illness take me there.

And so on Thursday, on an empty train,

a flying visit, to see your mother.

 

I dread the flat. So many pictures in my head.

The faded green settee on which we sat

our hands clasped, hidden between your thigh and mine.

Though in our forties, it was still a thrill

to be so discreet.

 

A coaster was provided for my glass

and your father opened the chenin blanc,

his favourite. You always had a Guiness,

faithful to your dad’s old firm.

 

At first your parents seemed so formal,

at opposite ends of the long room,

she solving the cryptic crossword

in the Telegraph,

he with the Evening Standard

business news.

 

Their flat was full of artefacts,

mementoes from an accountant’s travels.

Lamp bases were enigmatic chinamen,

there were carvings of Ceylon maidens

made from sandal wood, arched eyebrows aloof,

and chess sets made from jade,

and silk embroideries, elegantly framed.

 

I was shy at first, but soon

their kindness broke through.

They were so happy that there was someone

who really was in love with you.

Their difficult but cherished son.

 

Now I return alone.

Your mother sits, small as a fledgling,

with her hearing aids, shawls and inhalers.

She has your eyes.

 

I hold her hands for two hours then I go,

feeling that I should stay longer,

but I have to rush away for life

and food and wine and laughter.

While I still can.

 

Next day the train is crowded, smelling of warm farts and instant coffee.

We pass a field where I see a dead cow,

body like a brown balloon with limbs jutting out like table legs.

I sit and long for home.

But I promise you, I promise you,

that I will go back soon.