'My Father's Desk'

I sit at his kneehole desk again,

A friend, an intimate, a treasure;

Restored to an alcove as before,

With a window view to the left.

Outside it, not the Pennines, though,

Beyond our back gardens and the wall

Soaring over the old sandstone quarry

Down below.

The horizons now are terraced roofs

In the street behind my place,

A blue gate to the alley between us

And the patio flags

Where magpie feathers, scattered,

Show a small carnage,

A fight to the death, perhaps,

Has earlier filled its urban square of space.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And my own ted must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds,

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.