A WORK IN PROGRESS – METALLURGY

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Crossing his palm with silver
He placed his hand on my
Little bap.  My cursed pa,
With a penchant for 
Dressing in ma's clothes.
In my winning pink silk crown
Adorned with ermine and jewels,
Turquoise, rubies and pearls,
I served up ice-cream
As mum stoked the barbeque 
And dad pulled the pints,
Sister Candy was the queen.
And now my son has been hot-crossed with silver,
Toch'd by persons unknown in 'the home'.
I feel like Non's silver tea pot,
Pretty but useless.
And my silvered son's body has been intricately engraved
With (XXX). 
The dad had a hole burning in his pocket from the hot gloves.
The coins came back to cross us in gold.
And guilded nurse babe fled to New Guinea
To avoid excessive scrutiny in '99,
When champagne uncle's corks were popping everywhere.
But my guilt burnt a hole so deep
It was like hell as Freddie Mercury
Looked down on the roof tops from above
As my sweet child and I had a party
In the blue room.
That guilt that I can't quite forget or forgive
Was it the caretaker?
The circle was tight and
The watcher over the wall snatched my son.
Through the gap up to the caravan,
And I could tell but no-one believed.
We fled never to return to Devon and Cornwall.
And Non's platinum ring is unworn, unused, mislaid.
The family has been seen off by
A first platinum crown.
Son officially, rest unofficially.
Now I lift my pen to scribble my truth,
And tap and type 'til Kingdom come,
Leaving a blank inch - return, return;
For the 'X marks the spot'.  (Dad, Malcolm, Tony).
It's not an assent 
It's a complaint your honour, Mum,
A silver disloyal royal representative.
And Non's silver cake knives are waiting
Somewhere for my son to inherit.
by Patricia Goldberg

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