Analepsis

Fifteen was life
heard with the hiss of a Bakelite radio;
loves fluffing
like chips underfoot
on canteen Lino. Yet knowing,
somehow, that all this not-quite-fitting-in
would smash later life
like a Grand Slam pro on Astro.

Stuck eying
collagen vibrato;
the cactus always giving me the finger,
went further
than you'd think.
Until you, (who adored

more than most
the bell on the baker’s door,
teasing the still air
of a village
in outer Shropshire)

tweaked the needle, and made life
screamingly clear.
Your smile, your urinal-cake-perfume
today touchingly near.