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My Father's Paranoia

 

That hot Sunday

he wanted the hedge cut very badly:

It must be done now, he said. 

I said I’d do it when I was less busy

but that was too late for his paranoia 

which was already muttering to him

that the Evening Sentinel would report him

for an overgrown hedge: 

“Local Ex-Teacher’s Hedge A Disgrace.”

He reckoned the neighbours would spy on us

less easily with a trimmed hedge

(don’t ask me how). 

 

So he went out with secateurs, shears

and hacked at laurel and fir 

as if they were the neighbours

and we couldn’t stop him

even when he was in a sweat, trembling,

falling over, fitting, minor-stroking

on the ground, back in his chair, 

his hands still jerkily pruning: 

clip-clip-clip-clippety-clip, 

paranoia still on his lips: 

mustcutthehedgemustcutthehedge- 

don’twanttheneighbourstoseethrough-

don’twantthepaperstoknow

 

and all I know now 

is how un-busy I actually was 

that hot Sunday.

Knocked Over

 

             For Helen 

 

My friends were disappointed it was only a yellow mini:

you could have chosen a Rover at least and a better colour.

They ate the Roses they brought for me next day themselves

doubly disappointed by my bruises, lack of broken bones.

It was different for my sister. When it happened the phone

started ringing back home and before my father picked it up

she was in tears and couldn’t explain why. This was when

we were in our teens, not always together as we had been, 

as if telepathy is a sign of a closeness already in the past.