Turning over a new leaf
This is the paper I used then,
all six metres scrolled in a drawer
with dozens more like old papyrus
stored in the hall. The used face
is a kymograph. Mongolian peaks in pen
across the fine, green-squared terrain.
It takes me back to the lab
at St Andrews, where muscle fibres
strained in solution, and moved mountains.
The dogfish swam in a tank. Shirt off
and up to an icy armpit in water
I felt for sand paper skin, only
needed a touch for a firm grip,
the fast stick and a knife through the head,
all done in seconds by young hands.
A few fibres were ample, sliced
from the side. The rest I took by bike,
home for my tea. I envied my mate,
who was studying cod for his PhD.
Some nights I spent with the ivory lab
coat folded for warmth, opened
the window and leant with my head among stars,
forgot about wind and the cycle through snow,
alight with models, each further level
of machine in machine of muscle moving,
all muscle, from dogfish to me and you.
No part was wasted, not time
nor fish, nor this good paper unspooling
from the drawer's slot, blank side up,
pulled over desk top and down to the floor.
No better thing than this unwritten page,
still fit for life from another pen.
No A4 for me with immediate end,
but sufficient space to reflect on paper
what seemed the same and what was different,
then.
Colin
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