Joe 90

the big rat of my childhood

I cross the threshold into another poem
as Grandads chair rotates clockwise,
head back in the spin,
picture-rail portraits merge 
into a single familiar face.

Ornaments and brass carriage clocks
blur streaks of colour 
on tobacco brown walls.
Gas fire chrome lights up green
as my brothers hands 
slap to increase the speed. 

Recovery is only a moment of laughter,
never long enough to breath
before the chair goes anti-clockwise
and time is undone, the transfer complete.