Winter Coat

We were dancing when they came
but the four-four of heavy boots put paid to that.

The chill sent us indoors to dig out what we could
for warmth. I found my uncle's greatcoat from the war,

heavy, drab and mildewed, but double-breasted,
with brass buttons and a collar I could hide behind.

It taught me how to stoop, to shuffle and queue
like an old man suffering from damp and memory.

I patched the lining with bits of coloured rag,
embroidered words there, whatever came to me:

tomorrow, sweetheart, polka, apricot, yesterday,
and the names of friends I'd never see again.

Sometimes I'd stand out on the corner, whip it open
like a flasher, then run for the shelter of an alley.

One night I dreamt thunder, woke to hear the city sigh,
as if a heaviness had just passed down the street.

Dead leaves scratched the pavement.
Across the yard someone tuned a fiddle.

Today we're in the square again, dancing.
I wear the old coat inside out, sweat a fever underneath.

(from Living on the Difference)

© Mike Barlow