This poem appeared in my book, Heading North. Although in it I don’t explicitly say so, ‘No More’ was written after the death of my father, which was thirteen years ago today.
No More No more. No more bleaching white the nicotine stained flesh of your fingers, picking at the sterile veneer of cordiality amidst the well-thumbed scattered deserts from which ruins strive to rise. No more counting down the markers, elbows jostling territorially, courting, sequential swans rising in toasts, triumphant. Your slow, inexorable withdrawal left behind a vacuum, the equilibrium of a table out of kilter. No longer the trumpeted parading of the heir apparent, the tedious repetition of vine and tongue, reproduced seasoned lines framing the true inheritance and held to likeness. Casual comparity no more. No more. ©Andrew James Murray