Aubade Mirabilis

Needler Hall, the University of Hull

Woken at dawn to the sound of Bechet’s clarinet

coming from his room on the floor above,

as the door opens and he creeps down the stairs.

The flop of moth-eaten brocade slippers

along the corridor. The knock. The ‘Come in’.

He stands in the doorway, plain as a wardrobe.

‘Thought you might be able to help.’

He stays just on the edge of vision,

an unfocussed blur, a standing chill.

There is no escape. The curtain-edges grow light

and the room takes shape. ‘Work has to be done.

What year was the Beatle’s first LP?’

‘Nineteen sixty-three,’ I mumble.

‘ABBAB. Excellent.’ And he is gone.

The sky is white as clay, with no sun.