Sometimes I think of my daughter
and I’m not there. In her future.
On the train he asked me what
I’d been writing and I told
him I was writing my future.
Word by word it’s a story no one wants
telling. That’s self-indulgent. I should
drink more. Or less. On the train he asked
me about my brother and I remembered
someone else asking if that was the problem.
Was I jealous maybe? At weekends when
I’m reunited with my wife it’s a reprieve.
We were divorced on Monday until Friday
and now we’re reconciled. On the train
he told me he was divorced now but
it was okay because he had a flat in Northwich.
At home I looked at flats because home wasn’t home.
When I drank more or less I started listening
to Seamus Heaney and I remembered the poem
I wrote when I’d read too much of him, the one
about dead Romans. I was making a mythology
that wasn’t peat buried. I’m all for that fate. Peat bogged.
Last night in bed I was on a train going north.
Alone. Then with the dog. Then alone again.
In a cove I finally got some sleep. I dreamed
of my daughter. It was the future. I wasn’t there.