I hadn't met his kind before.
His misericord face - really,
like a joke on his father - blurred
as if from years of polish;
...
Here, I should surely think of home -
my country and the neat steep town
where I grew up: its banks of cloud,
the winds and changing, stagey light,
...
I would have skipped the stupid games,
long afternoons spent chilled in goal,
or sleepy, scratching, in deep field,
leapt the sagging fence
...
Kate Clanchy (born 1965 Glasgow, Scotland) is a Scottish writer. She was educated in Edinburgh and Oxford University. She lived in London's East End for several years, before moving to Oxfordshire where she now works as a teacher, journalist and freelance writer. Her poetry and seven radio plays have been broadcast by BBC Radio. She is a regular contributor to The Guardian newspaper; her work appeared in The Scotsman, the New Statesman and Poetry Review. She also writes for radio and broadcasts on the World Service and BBC Radio 3 and 4. 2009. She is a Creative Writing Fellow of Oxford Brookes University and teaches Creative Writing at the Arvon Foundation. She is currently one of the writers-in-residence at the charity First Story. Her poetry has been included in A Book of Scottish Verse (2002) and The Edinburgh book of twentieth-century Scottish poetry (2006))
Love
I hadn't met his kind before.
His misericord face - really,
like a joke on his father - blurred
as if from years of polish;
his hands like curled dry leaves;
the profligate heat he gave
out, gave out, his shallow,
careful breaths: I thought
his filaments would blow,
I thought he was an emperor,
dying on silk cushions.
I didn't know how to keep
him wrapped, I didn't know
how to give him suck, I had
no idea about him. At night
I tried to remember the feel
of his head on my neck, the skull
small as a cat's, the soft spot
hot as a smelted coin,
and the hair, the down, fine
as the innermost, vellum layer
of some rare snowcreature's
aureole of fur, if you could meet
such a beast, if you could
get so near. I started there.