Lux

Lux

listening to the smooth graze of my Grandad's voice,
the melancholy grumble, the geordie ramble, the rise
and swell of grainy memory which laps around my ears as the
water laps the sides of the bath, I take care not to splash
the stereo and wonder if it is keeping the neighbours awake

lying here in the steam, listening to him quote Newbolt without
knowing it, relishing the wheeze and the mumble, the sepia
ripples,
I hear my name come out of the darkness of the tape recorder
as he calls me, startling, like eye contact, and towelling myself
dry,
I disturb the bruise which his coffin left on my shoulder