This was Workers’ Day

Little brother asking me to dress
up in my bridesmaid silk. Dad went mental
but I was up the steps by then
preaching to an imaginary congregation,
pearls in my hair, on the election
of the predestined, not a word of course
for her, excommunicated. At least
that’s what we call Cardiff. Fencing words
all that airless morning until
            at last
                       we took out
                                  drums, candles, pensions,
                      and just burned
                              ourselves
                                          in the day. Little brother,
                                          I’ll always love you for this.
Who else could have raised apple trees from seed on that soil?
Who else would have walked all day in the rain
                        to check that the windows were double-locked?
Who else would have carried his sister across the burn in flood?
Who else could have rewritten the score for bassoon and one-handed guitar?
                    I cooked you pears and onions
                              sizzling off the black pan
                                        they slipped on our tongues
                    there was bread to mop up the rest
and outside the gangs were gathering.