JACK-O-TOMS

If therefore the light that is  in  thee  is

darkness, how great is that darkness!

                                       Matthew 6:23

Ghostlier than old Kodak prints,

heart’s snapshots pulse behind the eyes.

nor can I rescue them from the invading dark

that strobes across the years.  And Jack-o-Toms

reverts to negative.  That time skipped out its stone

when I was five in a one-piece bathing suit

(in days before men’s nipples were allowed).

It bounced from flash to flash across the pond –

memory of a memory of a . . .,

aided by dimly recalled photographs.

Yes, I was five and, sitting on grey wood,

discovered kicking-toes-in-water

while on brown light full of Barrie’s crocodiles

my elder brothers fought a lilo duel.

But, Jack-o-Toms, where were you?

England certainly.  More I can’t say.

I watched grown-ups skim to the farther side

on the singing pulleyed plank.  And then my mum,

just thirty-eight and slender as a branch,

descended, scooped me up.

‘Quite safe!’ she laughed.  But I was stretched

as tight as the wire she took me to.

‘Ready?’ she asked but didn’t wait for a reply.

The speed of our descent? – How could we stop?

And did I scream or simply want to scream?

Oh, lilos! water-kicking! pulley-squeal!

brown water, luminous, and first immersion to the neck!

My only stepping-stones to you are the long chain

of memories remembered in the growing dark

of Jack-o-Toms in August and a bow of dazzling drops.