About the Quay

The Quay, Exeter

We visited my Dad in care -

by penny ferry cross the Exe,

where when boy scout I learned to sail.

Those childhood days taught me a lot,

of family, ’fore college, school -

like Yale, the university,

its entry point if exam passed -

more keys to life, though opened doors.

Now mortise, tender tenon joint,

poor carpentry for Parky folk,

stretched tendon when I’ve kicking bout.

So many, set about this room,

piano, laptop, telephones,

a key safe with its pad outside,

each window locked and burglar proof,

then key board, labelled, by each hook;

a keyboard, waiting ear to play -

key signature to set the note,

and scale to set the mood aright,

though always singing out of key -

if only vocal cords unlocked,

and I could hold those tunes I knew.

As she points out, quite literally,

so many keyrings, broken nails,

now when one more, again turns up -

no logo clue, tour souvenir,

which might have dated, where we were?

Not key for Sunday, winding clock,

nor tiny key to open up

my teenage daughter’s secret book,

in case behaving how we did.

Some key better to understand,

just when to speak or to shut up?

We visited my Dad in care,

just by The Old Match Factory -

by penny ferry cross the Exe,

where when boy scout I learned to sail,

near Salmon Pool, the lane we lived.

We wandered, the Old Customs House,

my weekly walk to Sunday school,

beside the weir, suspension bridge.

Down, underneath the arches, there,

Dad had a lockup, boat repairs;

and then, as bolt, that key - The Quay!