Ingrid's right ear
was still numb
where her father
hit her head

as she climbed the stairs
to Benedict's flat
and knocked at his door
he's in the Park

I think Ingrid
or try the bomb site
on Meadow Row
his mother said

so she climbed down
the stairs
her eyes
filled with tears

her hearing like
she was under water
swimming
she crossed the Square

and over Bath Terrace
into the Park
passed by
the flowers beds

the trees
the wire fence
coming into view
her eyes scanned

through the wire
to see if he was on
the swings
but he wasn't

she entered the playground
and searched
but he wasn't there
her heart sank

low ebb feeling
she walked back
through the Park
along the path

and crossed
Bath Terrace
and back through
the Square

passed kids
playing skip rope
or football
some playing a tag game

running
here and there
she walked down
the *****

and over
Rockingham Street
passed the fish mongers
up the narrow pavement

passed the houses
her eyes watery
looking up the Row
hoping he'll be there

passed the public house
where her father went
and got drunk
and round

into the narrow
side road
where the bomb site
spread before her eyes

the coal wharf
on her right
horses and wagons
still there

she scanned the site
walked to the edge
her heart thumping
her eyes  searching

and there he was
over by the wall
of a bombed out house
2 walls gone

roof blown off
him standing there
picking up stones
she called his name

he turned and waved
she hurried towards him
over bricks
and stones

and chickweed
to where he stood  
2 small stones
in his hand

been looking for you
she said
her voice
on the edge

of breaking
what's the matter?
he said
but guessed

saw her watery eyes
her tone of voice
my ear hurts
she blurted out

and held her right ear
with her hand
your old man?
he said

she nodded
and cried
and Benedict
hugged her

his 9 year old arms
about
her thin shoulders
they stood

in the recess
of the bombed out house
sunlight pushing
through the tile less roof

unsure
what to say or do
he kissed her hand
and ear

a catapult wedged
in the back pocket
of his jeans
the small stones

held tight
in his left hand
he kissed the ear again
hoping

it would help
to heal the pain.

I hate Saturdays
they remind me of you
and your last
minimal texts

blood in *****
just been sick
in phone text
you said

3 days later
you were dead
that long wait
we had

you unable
to urinate
drinking bottled water
breathing heavy

looking tired
you seeing
the doctor twice
no result

no end in sight
off to another hospital
another wait
blood tests

waiting
watching
the waiting room TV
nurses coming

and going
you wore your
Family Man tee-shirt
unaware you'd wear

no other
the dark jeans
trainers
the zip up

dark jumper
you silent
like a weary bear
eyes watching

waiting
then a nurse said
you had
to stay the night

so off we went
to take the bed
the last
on the short ward

the window showing
the dark evening sky
not knowing then
unaware

here was where
you'd begin to die
I hate Saturdays
they remind me
of you

at a low ebb
the unfolding drama
the same scenes
after the other

the questions
I continue to ask
inside my head
shaping up

the scenes
trying to avoid
the end
where you are dead.

Your shirts
hang drying
that we washed,
my son.

I recall you
wearing them,
each
and every one.

They hang there
lonesome now,
sad relics
of your wardrobe,
cast-offs
of a life
gone too soon,
cut short,
live long after me,
I thought.

I like the patterns,
the colours, too,
but on seeing them,
I’m remembered sadly,
of lovely you.

I sniff
along the cloth,
feel the buttons
that you once
did up, undid,
your fingers touch
and hug and feel,
the pain, of that,
too much.

The shirts hang
innocent, unaware,
lifeless, unworn
and cold,
I can feel them,
but want you
to hold.

Maybe I’ll wear the shirts
to give them back
some life,
some warmth,
fill them out,
give them body
to embrace,
pretend to them
I’m you,  
act out the lie,
not reveal to them,
not tell them,
I watched you die.

Janice said
she wanted to show me
how well she skipped
with her new skip rope

I watched
as her small hands
held the wooden ends
and her arms

circled like windmills
and her feet
lifted from the ground
in an odd dance

the rope going over
and under
over and under
have a go

she said
no it's OK
I said
let me show you

how good I can draw
my new gun
from my holster
I said

tapping
the toy gun
at my side
a brown hat

(an uncle's trilby)
plonked
on my head
she watched me

her red beret
on her head
the lemon dress
I liked her in

the black plimsolls
touching toes
I took out the gun
and spun it

around my finger
like I’d seen
in the Jeff Chandler films
my old man

took me to see
my other hand
spaced at my side
I put the gun back

in the holster
and on the count of
1-2-3
I drew the gun

in the blink
of her lovely blue eyes
as 1-2-3
bad cowboys

(invisible to her)
fell and died
can I have a go?
she asked

sure you can
I said
so undid the belt
and holster and gun

and handed them
to her
to put on
which she did

in clumsy fashion
all fingers and thumbs
once she was ready
(at her own

female pace)
she said
count me in
so I said ok

and counted 1-2-3
and she went
for the gun
and sent it

spinning
through the air
catching sun light
on the silvery parts

as it fell
to the ground
with a clattering
spark flying

cap banging
sound.

She's in love with love.
She loves love’s weblike
Entanglements, its
Holds, its deep woven

Intricacies. She
Loves the waiting for
Him, the hour to come,
The time to tick fast

Away until his
Return, the sight of
Him once more, the scent,
The feel, the hold. She’s

In love with his hot
Embraces, kisses,
Touches, exchanges
Of juices, love filled

Words and gestures and
The unfolding of
Love and love’s fond tale.
She loves the place in

Bed where he may lay,
The pillow where his
Head shall be, the bed’s
Impressions where his

Body’s humanness
Laid the flesh and bones
And dreams and ***. She
Loves the unfolding

Unspokenness of
That hour, those still
Moments, that just them
Laying there, just them

Embracing, that just
Sensing him being,
Him breathing, him just
Being him, being

There waking, sleeping.
She loves by love’s deep
Hold, by love’s profound
Entanglements. She

Wants him there always,
Always in each time’s
Ticking of the clock,
The two hands of time’s

Turning, she wants his
Fingers to explore,
To delve, to stroke, to
Run across her lips

Before a kiss. She’s
in love with love of
Him. She remembers
The first lip to lip,

The first time making
Love, the first row, the
First return. She now
Recalls his last words,

His final gaze, the
Back of him leaving,
The turning of his
Head. She’s in love with

Him even after
Death, following his
Dyingness, despite
Him long being dead.

It is you
whom I seek
in the long hours
of the night.

It is you
whom I wait for
in the dawn’s
dull light.

It is your voice
I listen for
in all bird’s song;
thought you
were for always;
I was wrong.

I want to hear
your laughter,
chuckle and wit,
but though I listen,
there’s not one bit.

There is
the loud laughter
of world and ways,
and pointless chat;
but we close it off;
want none of that.

I feel along the clothes
that you once wore;
but nothing is the same
as it was before.

His ashes are here,
the dame said,
soft tones,
but blunt words,
reminding me,
that you are dead.

Sure the world goes on,
turns blindly
on its way,
come night
dark and cold,
come dull day.

Sure the days will pass
and others’ appetites
and passions burn,
but it is you,
and your being
here again,
for which,
my son,
I yearn.

I have inherited
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
after your death,

my son;
they sit
neat and tidy
on the bookshelf

by my bed.
I wish it was you
sitting there
quietly, instead.

I have inherited
some of your shirts
and tee-shirts,
many I recall

you wearing,  
some in photos
in my head.
I have inherited

that Christmas jumper,
the one you wore
last year
in white and red,

and your black
flat cap, too.
Wish it wasn't me
wearing them,

but you,
my son, you.
I have a selection
of your rock CDs,

a wallet, photos
and a short story

book you wrote,
but what

I don't have,
my son, is you.

I’ve worn
your Doors tee shirt.

It fitted you better
than it does me.

I remember you
wearing it
not long
before you died,
the Jim Morrison face
looking out at me
where your stomach
warmly used to be.

I wore it
in a kind
of remembrance;
a need to feel
where once
your body
snuggled up
against the cloth;
wanting to feel
the place
where you had touched,
to sense another feel
where you had been.

I didn’t want
to take it off.

It seemed another
warm embrace
of son and father,
like we did
just now and then,
less so,
for some reason,
as grown men.

I’ve worn
your Doors tee shirt.

It suited you better
than it does on me;
it hangs on me
where it hugged
you tight.

I’ll wear the tee shirt
with the Morrison features,
feel the cloth
which you once felt,
sense the touch
of you once more
in mind and heart;
believe some particle
of you may still
reside in cloth’s
worn hold,
that you
may ever be there
in every fold

It was her final letter,
The last love letter before
Her death. He held his breath; sat
Down in a chair, stared slowly

At the pink envelope held
Between warm fingers and thumbs.
He sniffed along the rim for
Any perfume she may have

Left for him; some hint that she
Had held it long before she
Posted; none was there. He slit
Along the top, opened up,

Took out the folded letter
With care, her sweet perfume hit
The air. He then unfolded
The paper and set it straight.

Her writing; that way she had
Of twirling her first letters,
The fine hand, the perfect word.
He read slowly through, taking

Each word in his mind, turning
It over, letting each word
Pour out its purpose, its sense,
Its love. He read a sentence,

One that took his breath away,
Which made him ache. “That last time
You held me and kissed me in
L.A, made me feel wanted,

So alive, so real. I love
You so much, and cannot wait
Until next week when we can
Seek each other out, and kiss

And love until our throbbing
Hearts give out.”  Her final words
Came after, “Love you always,”
And her scribble name above

A row of cross like kisses.
It’s hurtful what one loves best,
He mused, what one most misses.

I don’t know why you would want to bring those
Types of women into this house Mr
Myner I really don’t it’s not as if

I’m a prudish kind of woman because
I’m not but I have to consider my
Other paying guests who have a rather

Different take on life and who don’t want
To open their doors to those kind of women
Or hear the kind of things I heard last night

And the language Mr Myner I have
Never heard such language in my life and
The type of things those women wear or in

Some cases don’t wear and the make up my
Gosh they look like clowns Mr Myner look
Like regular clowns and the way they look

At me when I complain and they always
Go to your room it’s always your door they
Go to I’ve watched them as is my right to

Keep an eye open to the things going
On and of course I have to take into
Account and consider the welfare of

The bed in that room because after what
I heard last night I’d be surprised if there
Are any springs left on the bed and I’m

Not a rich woman I have only quite
Limited funds and I can’t go around
Replacing beds every time you decide

To bring home here those types of women or
Encourage them to come to your room
And Mrs Tarnshower paused and looked at

Herself in the mirror and said that’s what
I‘ll tell him next time he comes in with those
Kinds of women yes sir I will amen.

Lift him high
to the sky

raise him
on your shoulders

rest his coffin
by your head

your brother's dead
carry me

he said
once in jest

raise him steady
off you go

hold firm
for tears will flow

his favoured song
Over the Rainbow

tones you in
we all follow

gutted empty
feeling hollow

full of sorrow
hand in hand

tearful eyes
hold him steady

sisters
brothers

keep him close
to heart and head

carry me
he once said

lay him gently
let his coffin lay

let him sleep
in God's rest

you have given all
you have done him proud

you have carried high
the best.

Sleep on
loving brother

dearest son
rest as you can

our close-knit kin
our young brave man.

Benedict
sitting next
to Ingrid
on the grass

outside
Banks House
remembered one
of his female

junior school teachers
who always wore
short sleeved
flowered dresses

in summer  
and imagined
the dark hair
under her armpits

were small pets
she had secreted
into school
but when she

leaned over him
to check out
his school work
he thought  

that maybe
one of the secreted pets
had either
dirtied itself

or had died there
and he had to
hold his nose
the best way

he could
without appearing
disrespectful
or rude

blushing slightly
as if he had gone
to school
in the ****.

Where are you now
my son?

Where are you now?
I seek you

in the high noon
and at eventide

I wait for your presence
in the hall

your entrance
into the main room

sitting at table
or in your favourite

armchair
but I look again

and you're not there.
I listen

for your Mutley chuckle
in a further room

or your deep
soft laugh

or words of wit
but I listen again

and there's none of it.
I gaze at your pictures

about the house
those when

a mischievous child
or thoughtful student

or grown man
all spread

to a twenty nine
year span

all having
that knowing look

that smile or grin
and it makes me

hurt within
that you have gone

yet proud
Ole

proud
my son.

Deep within
where none else goes

the hard grief grows
and just when you think

you are moving on a bit
it comes back

with the painful hit
moving you back

to yesteryears
which move to tears

the little boy
the growing lad

young man
grown man

and deep loved son
all wrapped up in one

big bundle of memories
unfolding and moving

and having moved
to edge of hurt and pain

the whirlpool
of all emotions spin

in that secret chamber
deep within

where none else goes
the deep grief grows

Thought you weren't
going to come
Helen said
she stood by Baldy's

grocer shop
her thick lens glasses
were smeared
by recent rain

her plaited hair matted
had chores to do
at home
you said

you looked at the sky
guess you got caught
in the last downfall
you said

she nodded
brushing raindrops
off her green raincoat
with her small hands

then wiped
her smeary glasses
with damp fingers
where are we going?

she asked
you looked at her
standing there
her wet features

and clothes
raindrops falling
from her nose
best go back

to your place
to get out
of your wet clothes
you said

don't matter
she said
it does
you said

you'll catch a death
she looked at you
I’ll dry
she said

no
you said
best go home
your mother

will let you changed
out of the wet things
while I wait
she pulled a face

OK
she said
so you both walked back
to her place

she talked
of her mother's
chesty cough
and you talked

of the silver looking
6 shooter
your old man
picked up

at some junk shop
once you got
to her home
her mother moaned

but let her changed
out of the wet clothes  
and said to you
want a cuppa?

sure
you said
and so she poured you
a mug of tea

and a biscuit
and after while
she ironed some clothes
she asked about

your mother and her legs
and if
they were any better
no

you said
they' re just as bad
the tea was sweet
and milky

but you drank it
and nibbled the biscuit
and watched her iron
her plump hands

at work
her huge bust
swaying
to her motion

then Helen
came into the room
in dry clothes
her hair unplaited

and hanging
in long strands
you look
like a drowned rat

her mother said
I should wait here
if I were you
until the rain stops

Helen looked at you
then at her mother
ok
she said

I can show Benedict
my doll collection
you smiled
it could be worse

you thought
drinking your sweet tea
worse things
could happen to me.

He was not one
For the big words
Or the grand gestures
Preferring instead

To keep it plain and simple
And connect with the mind and heart
Of the ordinary person
In the home or street.

He was not one
For the compound lie
Or double-dealing
Or pretend to have feeling

When the touch was cold
He would much rather
Open up the box
Of truth and fact

And lay it out
With the wordsmith’s tool
Upon the page
Of black and white

And with the final dot
End his fine write.

Whatever you thought
of the modern art
you never said
you were impassive

your eyes or features
betraying nothing
you studied the art work
in your usual calmness

no ****** expression
no raised eyebrows
no tut-tutting
even the dead sheep

in the glass case
didn't put you off
or raise
emotive response

you eyed everything
walking slow
holding the programme
bought at the door

looking at each
as you went by
after a while
we moved along

to the small café
in the gallery
and had drinks
and sandwiches

and you talked
in your soft
open manner
not of art

or what we'd seen
but of work
and what you did
and unfolded things

like a magician
without revealing
secrets of it all
then we moved on

and you
were silent again
into the other rooms
of modern art

the Picassos
and Mondrians
and others
you taking photo shots

with your mobile phone
eyeing all the art
showing no emotion
no tilt of head

or wide-eyed
revelation
of surprise
just your own way

of appreciation son
your own
gentle way
of moving between

what is good or great
or seemingly crap
with the calmness
of a swan

through water
your depth
drinking it all in
with no pretence

or show
just that inner knowing
what you liked
and didn't

I am glad
you came with me
that day
the Tate Modern

wouldn't have been
the same somehow
your silence
your calm taking in

of art
your secret
appreciation
made it all

worth while
some way
but now
your untimely death

my son
makes it seem all
the more worth while
that day

that art
the shared time together
but I'd give
any Mondrian

or Picasso art away
just to be with you again
if only
for one more day.

You would have loved
Edinburgh Ole
another place
you never got to see

you wanted to go
I know
I could have been
your guide

I know the place
like the back
of my proverbial hand
could have taken you

along Princes Street
taken you up
Scott's Monument
up the narrow stairs

to the top
or in the gardens below
with flowers
and seats

the bushes
or up
the Royal Mile
with all its history

and sights
we could have gone
into the Castle
and viewed

each historical inch
(you would have
dug that all
that silent history

waiting
to be ****** in)
the one 0' clock gun
the view from the top

over all the city
but I can see you now
making your own
way there

(in spirit)
in your own
good time
walking in

your own casual pace
in your Doors tee-shirt
and blue jeans
the dark shades

the hair fresh cropped
short maybe
showing the scars
your smile(great smile)

taking in
a few bars
on the way
breathing in

the smell of beer
and scotch a
small taster
in your silver case

in your back pocket
you standing
on Arthur's Seat
having walked

to the top
(maybe breathless)
and seeing
the horizon

beyond the City's touch
enjoy Ole
make it
when you can

miss you
my son
my Ole
my man.

In dark dreams
I walk again
those empty
hospital corridors

with their dull lights
and smell of disinfect
and death
in those dreams

I look for you again
my son
passing by
the blanks faces

of others
looking at
their eyes
for glimpses of life

or concern
or such  
as humans
sometimes have

I go by
room after room
pass porters
pushing

the occasional trolley
by the various
side wards
passing by

the bright lights
of hospital shops
in the dream
I am hoping

to find you once more
sitting there
on the bed
your back turned

your head lowered
but this time
I am hoping
for a healthier you

my son
not one so ill
so lost
in this dream

sunlight shines
through the window
of the small ward
a bird sings

not that dull curtain
the murmur
of voices
the usual limbo like

air about the place
this time my son
I wish to find you well
looking at me

with your own
familiar smile
not that haunted
expression

and tired eyes
that draw from me
a steam
of deep felt cries.

Ole planned
to go

to Las Vegas
but he didn't make it

his untimely death
got in the way

(such are the plans
of mice and men

they say)
he even noted it

on his
Face Book page

mentioned
in passing

as if
a whole clear road

was visible ahead
(now he's dead)

but I can can see him
now in spirit

making his
own way there

taking in
the bright lights

the neon signs
the shows

to be seen
(getting in for free too

what a Mutley laugh
that will bring)

and Ole
in his black hat

and coat and shirt
and dark shades

making his way
at his own

slow pace
around the casinos

his ghostly hand
pulling a few arms

of one armed bandit
machines

while the punters
look on

**** witless
as the arm

goes down
again and again

or in the other games
I can see you

taking your own part
your sense

of gamble and fair play
wandering the tables

ghostly whispering
advice

(in your quiet voice
being nice)

having a cool beer
at the bar

or Jim Beam
or Jameson

if they've got it
you sitting there

the barman unaware
you there

taking in
the whole scene

the big shows
the bright lights

neon signs
wish I

could go there
with you

walk at your side
sharing a beer

or whiskey
a soft conversation

or that special silence
we often shared

when words
weren't needed

where the bond
was strong

go to Vegas my son
go to Las Vegas Ole

take in
the whole scene

of Vegas fun
my departed son.

An enormous
tragedy of grief  

sits on
the old man's

bent shoulders
his young son's

sudden demise
is always before

his weary eyes
it rises up

before him
with the dreary dawn

greets him
in the ticking

slow hours
of the dull day

(grief is like that
they say)

then sits with him
until the night owl

hoots him
to uneasy sleep

(his son's soul
to keep)

each time
he sits

to write
his worn words

his son watches
over

his bent shoulder
(or so he wishes

or hopes)
seeing his father's

fingers press
the keys

to conjure words
to soothe

the hurt
(they fail

but help
in one

untidy mess)
and maybe

his son's
ghostly hand

will touch
the shoulder's

ache of grief
(bringing in

the old man's
aged belief)

and maybe more
his whispered words

(with hint
of Mutley laugh

for sure)
to cheer or lift

his father's lowly
spirit high

saying although
the body's dead

the spirit's here
it does not die

and although
an enormous tragedy

of grief sits
on the old mans'

bent shoulders
it seems to sit

less heavy now
(although

deep hurting still)
somehow.

This grief
has teeth

my son
it bites through

skin and bone
tearing at heart

and mind
(the deeper

the love
the harder

the pain
I find)

this grief
with its pearly whites

gnaws at me
through dull days

and dark nights
trying to drag me

to dark depths
shaking me

like a dog with bone
bringing me

to deep hurts
and aching moan

this grief
holds hard

bites deep
taking me

to dark dawns
and black dogs

of sunset red
and echoing memories

in numb
and hurting head

this grief has teeth
my son

biting through
bone and skin

tearing me within
but memories remain

strong and clear
and bright

which will
sustain me

through many
a deep dark night.

Bring him home
don't leave him

out in the cold
wrap him warm

clothe him
in his favourite

Man U
tee shirt

and blue
creased jeans

bring our son home
bring him back

from the far lands
the places

of failure
and disappointments

and flat lining heart
bring him

back home
let the bugler play

let him play alone
to reach

our broken hearts
and stir

our tired minds
lift up the blinds

let in the sun
let it warm

his cold hands
and ease

the closed lids
of his eyes

bring him back
bring back

our son
let him

be with us
once more

back
from the dark place

home
from the distant land

bring him home
as fast as you can

bring back our son
and special man.

Ole used to like
the He-Man
TV cartoon series
and would enact

the main character
about the house
and stairs
and sofa

with a toy sword
tucked in the back
of his shirt
then one day

I took him
to the cinema
to see
the big screen

film version
of He-Man
with loud
booming voices

and music
and the bad guys
looking gruesome
and so on

and he began to say
he needed the crapper
and so off we went
outside and along

to the men's crapper
then back again
and sat down
to watch the film

then after a while
he would say
he wanted
the crapper again

and so off we went
and back again
and so after
the fourth visit

I said
do you want
to go home?
he nodded

in his own unique way
and off we went home
him silent
and me wondering

and knowing
that he'd been scared
but not wanting
to admit to it

he feigned the need
for the crapper
not knowing I knew
but I kept

his street cred
and smiled
down at him
and never said.

Ole would have loved
New York
he often said
he’d like to go

before untimely death
intervened
and stopped the show
I can see him now

treading at his own
casual pace
walking the sidewalks
taking in the streets

block by block
glancing down alleys
seeking out
the dives or clubs

hearing the music
in the smoky air
visiting a bar or two
having a beer

or Jameson whiskey
sitting on a bar stool
alone in his quiet manner
dressed in his black

overcoat
dark glasses
and black hat
(even in summer

he felt the cold)
maybe then
he was getting old
not saying

as was per norm
what troubled him
no one telling him
what to do

I can see him
go in the stores
and walk
in his usual

laid back tread
taking in a show
on Broadway
and being in spirit

not flesh and blood
getting in to see
for free
and that

would have brought on
his Mutley chuckle
that infamous Ole grin
or smile

but I guess
he may not
have gone alone
but have gone

with some other
in their ghostly shade
a Hendrix
or Jim Morrison

walking side by side
and I wish
it could have been me
there by his side

drinking in
his gentle quietness
and deep breath
if he hadn’t had

that sudden
out of the blue
untimely
29 year old death.

Grant me a corner
in which to cry;
through joyous eyes
I saw my son born,
through bleeding eyes
I watched him die.
Grant me a corner
in which to cry.

Permit me a quiet place;
let tender fingers
sew together
a wounded heart,
which through
my son's death,
has been torn apart.
Permit me
a healing place.

Allow me a soft bed
on which to rest;
let someone soothe
my aching brow;
keep the memory
of my first born son,
not amidst the dry reeds
or dull souls,
but amongst the best.
Allow me a bed
on which to rest.

Michelle has
just made love
to Nesta

her lover
satiated
she lays back

on the bed
Nesta's head
on her *******

her right hand
on her hip
Michelle feels

all her nerves
tingle hot
electrified

from hair end
to small toes
Nesta breathes

Michelle’s *******
the softness
pink piggies

tiny tails
of brown dugs
recalls wet

hot kisses
body hugs
******

deep probing
warm juices
then she hears

from the hall
her deaf child
from her room

loudly call
and swiftly
leaves the *******

and sweet smells
to rescue
her deaf child

and bring her
back to bed
with Michelle

her lover
who always
gives kisses

all counting
none misses.

Christine winds
the necklace
around her

going red
small finger
the small linked

silver chain
swells the flesh
why do that?

the quack asks
to get me
away from

deeper pain
she utters
the quack scowls

his eyebrows
like dark birds
join in deep

hovering
signs of non
approval

she unwinds
the necklace
the finger

once again
turning white
practising

she whispers
shoving it
deep within

the cleavage
of her plump
bra-less *******

the quack stares
like some kid
taken in

by an old
conjurer’s
sleight of hand

all gone now
can't see trick
you big *****

she mutters
feeling then
the warm chain

fall between
her closed thighs
sitting there

silver links
shut away
from his eyes.

All and all in the dying dream,
And the lost girls scream for the pretty years,
And the fears of light has scraped their bones

To tones of harsh and brutal sounds.
All and all in the breaking dawn,
The dead and born have shed their skins

For the seeping sins of he and she,
Who groped to be with flesh and lust,
Who rust their souls in damp and dust,

And must, might, and sickly kiss
The mouldy miss of dames and such,
And loved her sad and all too much.

The parents row again, but
You just sit in a corner like

The good little girl you are,
Watching shadows cast by

The sun flow through the
Kitchen window. Your dolls

And toys are in the other
Room where the row is;

So you just sit and listen
To birds sing from outside

The house, like the patient
Little girl you’ve become,

Playing with dark dancing
Shadows in the cold hall.

The words of rows seem
Harsh and loud and vibrate

The walls causing your ears
To ache and invisible friends

To depart. The words are
Unknown to you: the ****

Yous and cruel ***** fill
The air; the loud blows will

Come next and Mother will
Cry and the rows will stop

And the there theres and oh
I’m sorrys will flow along

The walls where you sit and
Watch the shadows on the

Cold linoleum floor play
As you and they have before.

Bill had a lot to
Thank America
For (he didn’t think

So, that pile of ash,
That heap of broken
Promises, arms and

Hands of lethal touch,)
But he never said
As much. The good old

American Way,
His father hammered
Into him by words

And speech, not by touch
Of hand as other
Fathers may. Bill’d

Seen the ***** dark
Undergarments of
The American

Way, the hushed secret
Dealings, the dark deeds,
The unofficial

Killings, the *****
Tricks or silencing
Of witnesses of

The alternative
View; the communists,
Liberals of too

Soft a heart, those who
Poked their noses in
Too deep into the

Mire came under
Fire, disappeared
Or were loss or killed

In those accidents
Conveniently
Arranged, or so their

Close relatives feared.
Bill knew all this; smelt
***** from a great height;

The double talk and
Values; grim men in
Dark suits. The money

That could buy, silence
And distance. Bill loved
The American

Queer guys, the ones he
Could hold, kiss and ****
And softly pillow

Talk until the small
Hours sipping and
Smoking. Mother used

To tuck him up in
Bed and kiss his brow
And whisper soft words.

Both his parents were
Gone now, into the
Big sleep, where God or

The deep silence, their
U.S. souls will keep.

Miryam slept
most of the way
through Paris
that evening

her head
on your shoulder
her eyes closed
like pink shells

her mouth
slightly ajar
an innocent
sleeping child

kind of look
on the coach
as it travelled
through the bright lights

and sights of Paris
Beethoven's
5th Piano Concerto
pouring

from the coach's
loudspeakers
you gazed
at her tight

red haired head
sense of her
laying there
a soft sound

of breathing
a barely felt sense
of her pulse
and feeling

that the most
important thing
at that moment
that pulse

that sound
of breathing
that the whole world
would cease

if she did
neither again
you lay back
your head

on the headrest
taking in the sights
the lights
people passing

street scenes
bars and cafés open
couples walking
arm in arm

a kissing couple
here and there
the second movement
of the Beethoven concerto

easing through
the coach
and looking down
at her hands folded

in her lap
as if they too slept
fingers holding
thumbs touching

her knees visible
where her skirt
rode up as she sat
and as you lay there

taking in
her being there
that eternal moment
sinking in

the Proustian connection
of her sleeping so
and the Beethoven episode
the piano easing out

and her head there
on your shoulder
rested childlike
and all or most

of desires kept at bay
seeing her lay so
like untouched
untrodden snow.

Book us a bed
and room for the day
Julie said
so you did

in some cheap dive
off Charing Cross Road
you were up London
for the day

so that booked
(the dame gave you
that oh yes of course
it's for ***

kind of look)
you ventured
to Dobell's Jazz shop
and picked out

an Ornette Coleman LP
and went into a booth
and was blown away
some concert

in Stockholm
he'd done
after that
you met Julie

in Trafalgar Square
and she was waiting there
dull of hair and eyes
(drug withdrawal)

and said
did you do it?
yes booked it
not far from here

you said
she nodded
and looked about her
at the crowds

and Nelson's Column
and the lion statues
shall we go now then?
she said

OK
you said
and you took her along
to where

the cheap dive was
and the dame
at the desk
gave her

enjoy it kid gaze
and up
the windy stairs
to an upper storey

and opened up the door
and went in
bit of a dump
Julie said

looking around  
a double bed
and chest of drawers
and dressing table

and a gas heater
she walked into
the bathroom
with a huge bath

and two enormous taps
you looked out
the window
which looked out

at a brick wall
it'll do
she said
and went to the bed

and sat on it
and bounced
up and down
a few times

not bad
she said
so then she took of her coat
and kicked off her shoes

and began to take off
her red jumper
are you here
just to watch?

she said
pulling the jumper
over her head
no just waiting

for the go
you said
well go then
she said

and you took off
the ankle boots
and jacket
and unbutton

your creamy shirt
and you noticed
her white bra
and the smallness

of her ****
and taking off
your shirt
you thought

of that quick ***
in the cupboard
in the hospital
where she was

for the drugs
and all
and how quick
and cramped

it was in there
yet here was room
and bed and you unzipped
your wide bottomed trousers

and stepped out of them
and she was already
in the bed
laying there waiting

and you got in
beside her
and touched her
right ***

and she said
**** me
your hand is cold
warm it up

she said
so you did
and she was happier then
with you beside her

your warmed up hands
feeling her
touching and holding
and she kissed you

and put her hands
about you
and then
it was all go

and outside London
was moving on
traffic roared
people getting

on with lives
a cat meowed
and a car backed fired
the gas fire spat out flames

and after the ***
laying back
she said
the nurse at the hospital

told the doctors
I was missing out
on medication
and taking

a backward step
(she'd taken a pill or two
from some ****
at a London club)

and as she talked
her head on the pillow
a cigarette held aloft
you lay beside her

thinking of her body
her thighs
her *******
her lips

her eyes
your cigarette held
to one side
smoke rising

ceiling ward  
you wanted
to make love again
as outside

on the windowsill
the sharp
pitter patter
of heavy rain.

Whatever else
her Polish accent
didn’t do
it didn't stop

her quest for ***
and Benedict
nigh on gave in
one or twice

(who was counting?)
time on his hands
(a rare event)
or caught unaware

and thinking
do I dare?
and he had to admit
even against

his better will
she was
a lovely dame
and such

well?
Sophia said
you want to?
he looked passed her

at the door closed
the bed fresh made
as if she knew
bins all emptied

of their dust
and muck
you want me?
you want to ****?

he looked
at her blue uniform
the greeny top
the tight pressing bra

the eyes ice cool
I don't know
he said
what if some one calls?

or the old guy
comes back
to his room
for some reason

or other?
Sophia stood
always the excuses
always the worry

of others coming
or going
she said
come on

she said
sitting on
the fresh made bed
have me now

make up
your mind
he gazed out
the window

the snow was settled
trees hung
white with brown
not just now

he said
as she spread
herself down
upon the bed

one leg raised
a glimpse of thigh
caught as in a mirror
of his turning eye.

Mary wakes from
her, troubled, uneasy
sleep. She turns and
sees Alice behind her

looking at her. What
are you doing here?
she asks, sitting up,
looking down at the

child. Wanted to be
near you, Alice replies.
You can't come into

my bed, what will
they say if they find
you here? Mary's voice  
rises higher than she

meant. They won’t,
Alice says, no one
knows. They'll miss
you, Mary says, look

for you, and if they come,
what then? The child
sits up, rubs her eyes.
I'll hide, she says. Mary

sighs, lays back on the
bed, looks at the ceiling.
The child lies next to her,
head on her thin shoulder.

You can't do this, Alice.
But I have, the child says.
Your bed's lumpy. If they
find you in here, I’ll lose

my job and God knows
what'll happened then.
There is black spider
creeping along the dull

ceiling, slow movements.
We mustn't tell them,
Alice says. She runs a
small finger along

Mary's arm. You can't
stay here, Mary says,
you must go back to
your own bed before

they find you've gone.
Don't you love me any
more? Alice softly asks,
looking sideways at the

maid beside her. Yes,
of course I do, but this
mustn't happen again.
I'll be gone, then who

will you have to love,
now your mother's ill
and locked up? Alice
frowns and looked at

her hands, small, white,
pink. Mother used to
let me into her bed and
cuddle her. Her pink

fingers join and she
makes. I'm not your
mother, Mary says,
I’m just a maid who

wants keep her job.
Alice looks at her.
You said you'd be my
adopted mother. Mary

looks at her biting a lip.
Yes, I did. She looks
away, at the window
where lights begins

to show. All right,
but you must go back
now, before you're
missed. Can I come

another time? Alice
asks, her bright eyes
gazing. Yes, if I say so,
no creeping into my

bed at night unless
I know, Mary says.
Alice nods her head.
Best get back then,

she says. Be careful.
I will. And if I’m seen,
I’ll say I was sleep
walking, Alice says.

You mustn't lie, Mary
says. Should I tell them
the truth then? Alice asks,
smiling, getting down

from the bed. Be careful,
sleep walk just this once.
The child nods, opens the
door and closes with a

click. Mary gets out of
bed, opens the door, looks
along the dim passage.
The child has now gone.

Silence. Cold morning
air. A hard frost maybe.
What if she's seen? What
then? She shuts the door,

pours cold water from a
white jug into a white bowl.
Morning wash. Hands
into the water and throws

into her face. The coldness
wakes her. Far off a bird
sings. What if she's found
out of bed? What a turn up.

Poor kid. Me another mother
Nearby a church bell rings.

You both rode your bicycles
to the small church
along the lane
and parked your bikes

against a tree
in the churchyard
out of sight from the lane
will there be anyone in there?

Milka asked
as you tried
the old wooden door
don't think so

people only come here
one Sunday in the month
you said
you opened the door

and walked in
it smelt of damp
and oldness
and no one was there

you walked up the aisle
and looked at the old pews
and stained glass windows
people still come here?

she said
guess so
you said
kind of old isn't it

you stood looking
back at her
her dark hair
brought into a ponytail

her jeans and green top
do you like the place?
you said
for what?

she said
to visit
you said
been to better places

she said moodily
thought you
were going to take me
somewhere

we could be alone
and kiss and such
she added
looking around the church

we are alone
you said
yes but hardly
the place to kiss

and do things
she said
we can kiss here
you said

then what?
she said
she walked down the aisle
looking about the place

you watched her
we could have ridden
to the pond place
and did more

she said
let's just sit
and get the feel
of the place

you said
she reluctantly walked
back to you
and you sat in

one of the pews together
I wonder how many couples
have walked down
this aisle as man and wife?

you said
a few unfortunate couples
I guess
she said

you smiled
some make a go of it
you said
don't get any ideas

she said
I'm not ready
for that stuff yet
do your brothers

still needle you
about going out
with me?
you asked

not any more
they got bored with it
in the end
besides you're

their friend
and I’m just their sister  
they said
you ought to see a quack

after going out with
she said unsmiling  
and my mother
trusts me with you

which is annoying
why annoying?
I wanted her to be worried
that I was doing things

and have her look at me
like I was a no good *****
you laughed
what for?

to see her reaction
she trusts me
you said
well she shouldn't

Milka said
not after
what we have been up to
it's not always

what you do
it's what people think you
do that makes them
judged you

you said
I don't like this place
she said
let's go elsewhere

ok
you said
and so you got out
of the pews

and walked out
of the church
and got on your bikes
and rode off

into the Saturday morning air
giving her moving hips
as she rode
a happy stare.

You imagine
she still lies there,
still having made love
has that satisfied look,

that we did it
once more gaze.
All gone now,
all in former days.

The house has long
been sold, others
live there now;
the bed long gone,

gone for scrap
or firewood,
at least that
wooden frame.

You think on
that peasant way she had,
the lifting up
of legs and thighs,

the brightening up
of those liquid eyes,
the play of smile
upon her lips,

then love making over
and resting side by side,
that sense of
we did it again,

a little adolescent pride.
Death had her marked out
even then you guess,
cancer making plans

of conquest,
ticking time,
the clocks all set,
an all off certain bet.

And yet,
still you think her there,
laying abed,
eyes bright,

legs and thighs lifted,
the lips pursed
to kiss,
all love talent gifted.

Gone now,
some resting place
marked and squared off
for some to see,

flowers bought and laid,
attention and respect paid;
but where she's rested
you don't know,

no last farewell,
no last kiss
nor given
nor made, you're afraid.

In the night
Alice walks
from her room

along dark
passageways
passing by

Father's door
nanny's room
down the stairs

creeping soft
shadows loom
tick of clock

sight of moon
through window
and its glass

deeper down
servant's end
darker still

talks in sleep
or snoring
from rooms passed

till at last
she reaches
Mary's room

with small hand
and fingers
she opens

up the door
and goes in
shuts the door

behind her
with soft click
there she sees

Mary's bed
metal frame
double size

grey pillows
greying sheets
thick blankets

on the bed
and within
snuggled deep

Mary sleeps
Alice peeps
in half dark

(moon's bright light
splits the night)
and listens

to the sounds
of breathing
mutterings

and soft snores
Alice waits
senses cold

bite her toes
and fingers
quietly

she climbs up
on the bed
and enters

to the warm
rough covers
in between

snuggles up
to the maid's
narrow back

and hot smells
of nightgown
and warm flesh

Alice slips
her small hand
all around

Mary's waist
her other
hand resting

on her chin
listening
to the maid's

rise and fall
in her sleep
safe at last

Alice thinks
safe and hot
drifts to sleep

soundlessly
as far off
a dog barks

a clock chimes
and Mary
in her sleep

dreams of home
far away
unaware

that Alice
is behind
sleeping there.

That is it
all over
Elaine thinks

on the bus
after school
she and John

and the kiss
all done with
everything

on the edge
her nerves wrought
as if each

hidden thought
was exposed
to everyone

silently
she sits near
the window

looking out
tears sitting
on the rims

of her eyes
like actors
impatient

to get on
to the stage
and perform

she’d seen John
walk on by
to get on

the school bus
he is there
across the

aisle sitting
looking out
as she is

wondering
what went wrong
what he’d said

or done wrong
at lunch time
on the field

at recess
he saw her
on the bus

sitting there
looking out
not at him

pretending
not to know
he is there

Goldfinch talks
beside him
some such stuff

in his ears
empty words
soft laughter

all John wants
is Elaine
to have her

near to him
her body
close and warm

not this cold
far distance
between them

Elaine feels
all undone
all exposed

each nerve taut
every
thought of John

being near
but not near
wanting him

next to her
as it was
before lunch

the bus moves
to go home
she watches

scene changes
vibrations
moving tears

to the edge
like fragile
suicides

thinking on
the long fall
but her love

bites deeply
all undone
can’t recall.

His wife said, you’re too
Nice to people, too

**** nice, you ought to
Be like Rocky; he

Don’t take no **** from
People, he tells them

Where to get off and
Is down their throats far

Quicker than they can
Say, boo boo, but you,

You’re just too nice, you
Even open doors

For dames and give them
The big friendly smile,

And give them the bright
Eyed sparkle. He let

His wife’s words float on
By like butterflies,

Focussed on the art,
His word management,

Giving form to his
Notions, painting out

Scenes, putting plots to
New ideas, and for

Another thing, his
Wife added, what’s with

The dame in the ****
Photos everywhere?

Who’s she? In the frame
By the bed, on your

Cell phone, tucked away
In your pocket book?

Are you some kind of
Religious fruit? He

Looked at his wife (she
Was a looker, had

A nice face and cute
***) and watched her mouth

Move, saw her tongue, like
Some small snake go in

And out and how fine
Her eyes were in the

Morning sun, how they
Shone some, and he said,

You know, your mouth moves
Quite prettily, your

Lips, they’re like parting
Thighs and how I just

Love the way your head
Tilts slightly to one

Side just like some odd
Inquisitive bird,

And by the way, the
Dame in the photos

Is St Therese, and
She’s just there to bring

Me comfort and to
Remind me how pure

And heaven sent a
Woman can be and

That there is more to
Women than meets the

Eye, but his wife stood
And shook her head, and

Not another word
By his wife was said.

How do I look in this dress?
Walt’s wife asked him as she
Did a twirl in the bedroom.
Yeah, fine, Walt slowly replied.

But you’re not even looking at
Me, she said. Walt turned his
Head from the small TV screen
And gazed at her. Yeah, you look

Fine. It’s not too short is it? She
Asked. No, not too short, Walt
Said, his eyes looking at the TV
Screen once more as the ballgame

Hotted up. How about my ***,
Does it look ok? Sure, said Walt.
Sure, what? She asked, my ***
Is too big in this? Is that what

You’re saying? Yeah, Walt replied,
His eyes focusing on the pass of
Ball. How can you be so insensitive.
Why you’re not even looking at me.

DOES MY *** LOOK BIG IN THIS?
She bellowed. Walt turned around
And at stared at his wife sticking out
Her ***. No, no, he said, just right

Honey, the best *** I’ve seen today.
What other *** have you seen today,
Then? She said. Walt sighed, he’d
Missed a good hit. What do you

Want to know now? Walt asked.
Whose *** you seen today? She said.
I haven’t seen any ***, Walt replied.
He studied his wife as she twirled

Again. That’s a bit short isn’t it, Walt
Said, and a bit tight. Makes your ***
Look like two piglets under canvas
Fighting to get out. A hairbrush flew

Across the room missing Walt’s head
As his wife stormed into the bathroom
And slammed the door. That’s ok Honey,
That’s what we ******* husband’s are for.

Mother’d say, don’t go by
How blue a man’s eyes are,
But by the size of his bank

Account, and she thinks on
That now, taking a sip of wine,
Holding a cigarette, some things

You don’t forget, some things
Are branded into the brain,
Especially Mother’s words,

Her philosophy, her way of
Viewing the world. She pauses,
Watches her husband parking

The car from the window, the
Way he walks around it, gives
The door handles a pull, taps

The bonnet like some *****’s
***. Yes, hubby’s got the dough,
Got the big bank account, buys

Her expensive clothes, rings and
Pretty much other things, but love,
Affection, that sitting side by side

Holding hands and kissing sort
Of thing, he just can’t bring, has
No clue what to say or what to do.

Sure he has the connections, the
Right kind of friends, takes her
To parties, to functions, gets her

To meet the Mr Bigs and their hold
On the arm, give a pretty smile, wives,
But he doesn’t give her love, or know

How she feels or if she wants children
Or not or how well she is or if she’s
Got the pox. Sure, he can **** her as

Good as the next guy, give her a car,
A necklace, get her to see Paris, Venice
Or wherever, but he can’t give her that

Deep down sense of being wanted, of
Being needed for who she is, just like
The rest of the wives she knows, an arm

Hanging, pretty smile wearing, well dressed,
Bright eyed wife, but unloved, unneeded
Just another possession for him to have

And hold, with a beautiful complexion,
But with a heart grown bitter and cold.

Where are you now,
Ajanta? Your
Father calls, his

Voice coming from
His room along
The hall. By the

Window, you say.
Ajanta, what
Are you doing

There? Looking at
The sun; feeling
The sun’s warmth on

My hands and face.
The sun is not
Good for you, your

Father replies;
It will dry your
Skin and harm your

Eyes. Remember
What it did to
Your grandmother.

You stifle a
Giggle with your
Hand and watch the

Boy from along
The street passes by
On nimble feet.

His hair is well
Combed and he is
Well groomed. You are

Much too silent,
Ajanta, when
Children are too

Silent, mischief
Lingers, Father
Says, his shrill voice

Carrying down
The hall like some
Unseen spirit,

The tone harsher,
And the meaning
Firmer. I am

Looking at the
Sky; the birds are
Flying high, you

Say, watching the
Boy’s ******
Motion and you

Wonder if he
Will turn and look
Up at you. Have

You no work to
Be doing, child?
Does your mother

Not require
Your help about
The house? You lift

Your eyes skyward,
Sigh out softly,
The boy turns and

You wave and he
Smiles and waves back.
He has diamonds

In his dark eye’s
Brightness; he has
A tiger’s strength

In his strong stride.
Adjanta are
You there? Father

Calls out, his tone
Tougher, tighter
Than a tiger’s

Grip. Just coming,
I can smell the
Summer and the

Scent of flowers,
You reply. The
Boy has gone and

Taken off with
Your dream. Come here,
Adjanta, your

Father calls, where
Is the pen I
Lent you? Where are

My books? You turn
From the window
With a deeper

Sigh, ****** at the
Sky’s blue and bird’s
Flight and the hot

Image of the
**** boy for
Your dreams tonight.

Christina
undresses
before bed

views herself
in the tall
wide mirror

narrow waist
small fleshy
mounds of *******

she turns round
and gazes
at her hams

smiles thinking
what he'd say
if he viewed

what she views
looking back
over her

thin shoulders
she turns round
to the front

***** hairs
narrow hips
he would say

you're too thin
need more meat
0n your ****

but your ***
is ok
time for sleep

to put on
her nightdress
brush her teeth

comb her hair
get in bed
close her eyes

think of him
making love
in her head.

You met her in a field
beyond her house
during summer recess
that last one

before you both left
school for good
you'd walked
from the big wooden gate

by hedgerows
where birds sang
and flew out
pass you

sky blue
as if Monet
had been at work
my mother thinks

we've been doing things
she said
things?
you said

you know what I mean
she said
a steam train
passed by

over by the far hedge
we have
you said
I know and you know

but I don't want her
thinking we have
Judy said
you frowned

the white
and grey smoke
from the train
puffed

into the sky
so it's a kind of
knowledge thing?
you said

who's to know
and who isn't?
some people matter
she said

especially her
I’ll never hear
the last of it
if she thinks

we have
the grass was dry
and the earth hard
your shoes had seen better days

so we're here
in a field
where she could
possibly see us

and you're worrying
that she thinks
we have done things?
Judy sighed

and looked back
at the house
surrounded by fields
she's probably watching now

she said
following our movement
you looked back too
hands in the pockets

of your blue jeans
has she binoculars?
you said
not that I know

Judy said
doesn't matter
she has eyes
like a hawk

how are you
going to convince
we haven’t
done things?

you asked
she looked away
from the house
and sat on the grass

with you following
she sat cross legged
pulling the skirt
over her knees

spoilsport
you said
shouldn't look
didn't get a chance

too slow
she said
getting old
you smiled

I’m 14 like you
if that's too old
I'm Monet's aunt
she laughed

this isn't
solving the problem
she said
there isn't a problem

you said
just a matter
of perception
or not

as the case
is meant to be
what do you mean?
she said

your mother thinks
we have
and we have
yet you want her

not to think that
you replied
yes that's right
Judy said

maybe she wants
to think that
you said
why should she?

Judy asked
maybe she doesn't trust me
you said
she doesn't

Judy said
but she should trust me
you nodded
I see what you mean

so she should trust you
not to do such things
even when you have?
you said

it's the thought
that counts
she said
she put her hands

each side of her
on the grass
you could see
her cleavage

where her
blouse buttons
gave a little
yes

you said
it's the thought
that counts
and the thoughts

hung around
your head
wishing it
had not been

a hay barn
but a cosy
warm bed
instead.

Jeanette sits
in the class
music's played

Beethoven
sonata
Miss Graham

the teacher
at a grand
piano

thin wire framed
spectacles
her grey hair

in a bun
aged fingers
touching keys

many kids
in the class
sit bemused

others bored
out of brains
smile or smirk

but to her
sitting there
beside blonde

Angela
is transfixed
a new world

opens up
pretty much
like that kiss

stolen quick
by that boy
Benedict

on the field
after lunch
as she sat

all alone
Angela
had gone to

the crapper
(the wrong week
to sort out)

no reasons
were given
just that kiss

on her cheek
soft and damp
then he'd gone

leaving her
as one stung
by a bee

and she watched
as he went
towards school

and she sat
between worlds
old and new

balancing
her hormones
steering clear

of all those
dangerous
hidden rocks

Jeanette moves
to music
around her

her fingers
on the desk
like keyboard

pushing thoughts
of the kiss
from her mind

closing eyes
matching up
Benedict

inwardly
with passion
like one blind.

Suddenly it is
Like the conversion
Of St Paul: the rain
Has stopped falling and

You feel that moment
Of dryness, that sweet
Second when the rain
Ceases hitting your

Face, when the wetness
On your brow (despite
The umbrella) stops
Running down your nose.

You stand still; take in
The sharp sight, the feel.
People still walking,
Carrying on, still

Going about their
Lives, stepping around
Or over not through
Puddles, thinking their

Thoughts, unaware the
Rainfall has come to
An end. You breathe in
The air, that after

Rain smell that stink of
Wet cloth, that sudden
Realization
You want to ***. You

Hold the umbrella
Over your dry head
Uncertain if the
Rainfall will come once

More and catch you out.
Father would allow
You to stomp through small
Puddles as a child,

But Mother would not,
She’d steer you around
Them with the calm
Carefulness of a

Saint, gripping your arm
As if you were in
Danger and about
To drown. Dead now, both

In their separate
Graves, separate as
They were in life, he
Just her husband, she

Just his woeful wife.
The rainfall is now
Returning, just a
Short reprieve, like a

Life between two deaths,
And the need to ***
Just as powerful,
The realization

Of being, the wet
And the clinging damp
Clothes, the sneaky wind,
The people passing,

And you still standing
There, breathing in the
After rain smell and
Raining again air.

You guessed Jeanette
liked that kind of music
viewing her from behind
(at the back of class

sitting next to Reynard)
her head would move
with the music
the Beethoven piece

had her in thrall
or so seemed
seeing her
narrow body frame

slowly move
from side to side
like some
skinny snake

(titless Reynard said
she was)
to some charmer's flute  
her head

often times
was recline
to some Chopin
Miss Graham placed

upon the record player
(how old she looked
even then)
and closed her eyes

if you saw her
undressed
Reynard said
(Jeanette

not the teacher)
be like some pencil
thin and shapeless
but there was more

to her to you
something deeper
a certain something
beyond the cloth

of cardigan and skirt
and white blouse
and ankle socks
something of soul

or maybe undefined
that aspect
hanging there
in your 14 year old mind

Reynard whispered
when's this crap
going to end
give me rock

and roll any time
but Jeanette
seemed content
to sit and listen

and move her head
and frame
or wave her thin finger
in the air

as if an invisible
orchestra was there
you viewed her
from the back of class

her dark hair
shoulder length
resting on her back
and narrow frame

the slightly pointed nose
and thin lips
when viewed from profile
when she turned

but secret
like some slow fire
a deeper passion
within you burned.

Lizbeth *****
her finger
imagines

it belongs
to the boy
Benedict

with eyes closed
savouring
each flavour

part salty
vinegar
(having ate

fish and chips
earlier)
tomato

of ketchup
the red thrills
***** deeper

whole mouthfuls
of finger
thinking on

that church pew
old dark wood
where they could

but didn't
have made love
she ***** slow

finger length
the painted
finger nail

salty still
each flavour
so distinct

even in
her chosen
warm darkness

of closed eyes
she passes
over both

her knuckles
warm wet skin
imagines

so hotly
between thighs
him within.

You walked with Jane
as you passed by
the water tower
she talked

of the various breeds
of cattle
there were some
for meat

others for milk
some for both
she pointed out
some cows

in a field nearby
and told you
their breed
have you ever seen

a calf born?
she said
no
you said

not seen anything
like that
let's go to the farm
I think they have a cow

that is due to drop
she said
so you turned up
the drive

that led to the farm
where you worked
some evenings
after school

or at weekends
she walked and talked
you listened
looking at her

dark hair tied back
with a green ribbon
her dark eyes shone
with sunlight

you looked away
at that moment
watching the farm dog
pass by

with its one good eye
(it had bitten you once
and you were wary of it)
a cowman

was at the side
of a shed
clearing out
has the new calf

been born yet?
she asked
he looked at her
then at you

no not yet
he said
but should be soon
want to watch then?

he said
gazing at you
kind of grinning
yes

Jane said
Benedict here
hasn't seen a birth
oh of course

these Londoners
haven't nought
he said
hang about a moment

and we'll go across
he said
you looked at Jane
she was silent

looking around the farm
have you seen
a calf being born?
you asked

many times
she said
ever since
I could stand

I’ve been near
cattle and sheep
I know most breeds
of both

she added softly
after a few minutes
the cowman walked
you both over to the cowshed

over the yard
and opened up
the half door
there she is

he said
waiting to drop
you and Jane
peered over

the half door
at a cow by the wall
looking at you
disinterestedly

her tail flapping
away flies
shouldn't be long now
the cowman said

never seen
a calf born then?
he said to you
no not yet

you said
don't suppose
you Londoners
see much of cows

he said smiling
no not at all in London
you said
he looked at Jane

then at the cow
which was standing still
making noises
then moving

then standing still again
I was about 5
when my old dad
took me to see

a calf born
the cowman said
all that blood and stuff
near made me

want to puke
first time
you looked at Jane
her hands

on the door top
her eyes focused
on the cow
she had on blue jeans

and boots
and a yellowy top
with small bulges
of *******

there she goes
the cowman said
and you gazed
at the cow

and a head appeared
as if by magic
out of the rear
of the cow

and it hung there
momentarily
then it slid out
and dropped

to the straw filled floor
covered in blood
and stuff
and the cow

licked the calf
and you watched
fascinated
at the new life

laying there
moving
the cow licking
the legs moving

the head turning
that's how it is
the cowman said
easy one that

and you moved closer
to Jane
smelling her scent
her warmth near you

her arm next to yours
what will you call it?
Jane asked
don't know yet

the cowman said
might call it Benedict
if it's a bull calf
and Jane

if it's a heifer
he smiled at you both
and opened up
the lower door

and went in
then closed it up again
there you are
she said

now you've seen
a calf born
you nodded
and you walked back

out of the yard
and up the drive
let's go back to my house
she said

Mum'll give us
tea and cake
and we can tell her
about the calf  

ok
you said
walking beside her
sensing her nearness

her hand close to yours
you wanting to hold it
but not doing so
walking there

beneath the sun's
warmth and glow.