Quincite

Quincite threads in the limestone skin,

the last colour showing

in a face I no longer recognised.

Who knew? We all die

with our mouths open,

screaming or silent.

In 1985 his years numbered fifty-eight

the same as mine do now.

We never talked about miners,

Thatcher or even anything much.

He didn’t come to the wedding

although he’d have recognised

the CO’s office.

They looked the same in the 1940’s.

We talked on the phone,

once a week, rain or shine,

drunk or sober, in my case.

I can’t remember anything

we talked about then.

When he was 85

I was still calling.

“Such a dutiful son!”

I fooled myself.

After he’d disappeared into the fog

the conversations became easier

to remember

- since they were all the same.

Glasgow football in the 1930s;

Air Force Bases he had been at

that I did not remember.

Sometimes he’d break into song

and I’d join in,

until “a cough”

excused me.

I check the mirror for quincite

every day.