Peter Sirr
Peter Street
Peter Street
I’d grown almost to love this street,
each time I passed looking up
to pin my father’s face to a window, feel myself
held in his gaze. Today there’s a building site
where the hospital stood and I stop and stare
stupidly at the empty air, looking for him.
I’d almost pray some ache remain
like a flaw in the structure, something unappeasable
waiting in the fabric, between floors, in some
obstinate, secret room. A crane moves
delicately in the sky, in its own language.
Forget all that, I think as I pass, make it
a marvellous house; music should roam the corridors,
joy patrol the floors, St Valentine’s
stubborn heart come floating from Whitefriar street
to prevail, to undo injury, to lift my father from his bed,
let him climb down the dull red brick, effortlessly,
and run off with his life in his hands.
