Poetry

The Ruins of Knossos

It happened – was brilliant

but we all knew – as we loomed

over the incubator – that the child

was not mine.

I’d of course known all along.

Those months – labyrinthine –

were not mine to call anticipation.

The memory of us reclaims the present –

wrecks any chance of uprising, attack.

You had slipped out those evenings, oak heavy -

big as a bull – but unnoticed by me. His white

newness everything to you. The cups of tea,

the cigarettes, the cold microwave meals – ending

and beginning with silence. Now it is here.

And I built curves out of my mind

to incarcerate it – horns and all.

My daughter, my daughter – loosed

a  silver string of memory and lowered it to me

so I could find my own way out

And then the car was full of my things – and her

and me – and the last memory I have of you –

standing at the door – unspeaking,

snorting breath – December-sharp,

kicking up dust, the ring in your nose

keeping you there.

And without looking back, I

switched on, revved up, was gone.

Every gate to anywhere was open now –

and still I did not turn to look back,

back at the Manchester skyline.

Ian Hartnell