On the back of a picture of me as a nipper

are the names of four horses: six doubles,

four trebles and a roll-up. I’m bearing

the stamp of my father already,    

his Daily Mirror crossword precision.

 

I try to imagine when it was written:

rationing over - no shortage of paper;

betting illegal but under the counter;

in a hurry, late for work or the boozer,

certain it wouldn’t be lost by my mother.

 

I search all the snaps in the family albums

wondering if photos became lucky omens

and betting on them a common occurrence.

They didn’t. I only discover an absence -

not a single instance of us two together.

 

Here’s Dad and Mom at their wedding reception,

the NO  EXIT sign to the left and behind them.

There’s him with his mates, pints of mild and Park Drive;  

long sideburns and roll-neck, black leather jacket,

just like an extra from out of The Sweeney.

 

Here am I starring at football and cricket,

posing with Mom in the grammar school outfit;

my hair curling outward from Elvis to Hendrix;

early promise failing to see out the distance -   

he’s probably placing a bet at the bookies.

 

At the end in his armchair with my eldest daughter

leafing their way through a scrapbook of pictures,

I can just see my leg in the top right hand corner.

We drew a bit closer nearing the finish

but there was never a call for a photo.