And Christina
hadn't seen Benedict
on the sports field
the day before

and school without
seeing him
was a long haul
of boredom

and frustration
and even
to go down
school passageways

between lessons
and not get
a peek of him
was stomach churning

with other girls
on about this
and that
and she only

wanting a peek
of him
to carry home with her
to hug and hold

in her bedroom
dreams
but today
in lunch recess

he was there
on the sports field
with that fiend of his
and she thought

he hadn't seen her
and he was wandering
the field with his friend
and they were laughing

and she so wanted
for him to turn
and see her
sitting there

on the grass
with a bunch of girls
and them laughing
and giggling

about matters
when he turned
and saw her
and she felt

her whole being
explode inside
and a rush
of feelings

flooded her
so that she was sure
she'd peed herself
with it all

and he came over
and said
didn't see you there
come let's go

for a walk and
so she got up
unsure if her legs
would hold her

what with the body
having exploded
like it had
and she went with him

and he lingered
near her
and their hands
were near

and she didn't want
to seem forward
and hold his hand
but deep inside

she wanted
to hold his hand
and kiss it
and squeeze it

and take it home
with her
but she just
let it hang there

near his
and he spoke
of being off
the day before

through illness
and that
he was ok today
and he laughed

and said
did you miss me?
and she said no
and laughed too

but god the words
clung to the roof
of her mouth
and she had to

push them out
and he said
he thought of her
laying there

unwell in his bed
and she thought
how she'd have
hugged him

had she been there
how she would have
sweated the illness
out of him

but she didn't say it
but smiled
and felt her insides
turning and turning

and he said
he dreamed of her
and she said
what did we do?

and he said
sure I cant' say
and blushed
and she touched

his hand as they
came to the fence
around the field
and it was electrifying

and her heart
seemed to thump itself
against her ***
and O how hot

it felt being there
she feeling all
so in love
and a slight wind

moved his quiff
of brown hair.

And choir practice is over
and you and the others
leave by the vestry door
and look at the night sky

few stars
bright moon
and she says
wait a while

and so you wait
while the others
move off
towards the cars

or for the long walk
down the drive
from the church
and you see her there

in the moonlight
and she is standing
by one of the graves
and you go to her

and she draws you
to her and you kiss
and the warm lips
are on yours

and she has
her arms around you
and you smell
her scent

and feel her there
her body close
to yours
her hands touching

and her lips
and you touch her
and sense her
and it's as if

time has stopped
and nothing else
is in the world
except you and she

and the moonlight
and stars
and that slight wind
you sense

and her fingers
through your hair
and your hand
feeling along

her ****
and warmth
and no thoughts
no philosophy

no music
none of that stuff
just you and she there
and the kissing

and touching
and time moving
but you both unaware
that some other guy

would have her
and marry her
and that cancer
would take her off

into its deadly grasp
and there was moonlight
and stars
and lips

and kissing
and she saying
she loved you
and you saying words

that floated there
bird-like flapping
and her lips
soft as cotton

and her tongue
touching yours
entering
and sensing

and O boy
that was hot
and love
and only

in the dark hours
when her shadow
lingers nearby
do you see

that time
and feel
the need
to cry.

Fenola
*******

to Chopin
for Eileen

who lies spread
on the bed

concerto number 2
that would do

Eileen said
watching sweet

Fenola
removing

her clothing
first the blouse

the pink one
she had bought

that first date
next the skirt

the jet black
with matching

underwear
then the bra

removing
her fingers

holding up
before she

lets it drop
now she stands

gazing down
taking in

the spread of
the two thighs

the two soft
melon *******

the button
of her birth

and below
the *****

dark forest
covering

her queendom
of Eve land

she pauses
as Chopin

number 2
plays softer

and Eileen
hot moistens

Fenola
like some cat

stealthily
on all fours

her tongue out
licking up

the two thighs
her two paws

and soft claws
slow engage

the *******
as her lips

move in there
to that hot

queendom spot
to the cries

do not stop
do not stop.

Alice sits in the large
window of her father's
library, looking at the
garden and trees and

fields beyond. Silent
except for distant voices,
from the billiard room,
where her father is

with friends of his.  
Laughter, deep, haughty.
She hates it when the
men see her, and want

to haul her, onto their
laps to play horse riding
and over hedges in the
fox hunt. She pretends

not to hear. The garden
view brings Dougridge
to sight; the gardener
pushing wheelbarrow

of manure. Seldom speaks,
nod of head, touch of
forelock type. The men's
laughter gets louder; she

imagines herself tucked
up in her mother's arms,
safe, warm, and out of
harm's way. Mother is

out for the day. Taylor
drove her; he of sour
face, dark eyed and hair.
Alice holds her doll tight

to her chest, arranging
the mother made dress.
One day, one time, one
of her father's friends

held her on his lap and
tickled her to tears, his
thick fingers squeezing
her thighs, his alcohol

breath in her ears, soft
wording sounds, she
didn't understand, she
wanted to get down,

and did. They laughed.
She still felt his fingers'
grip long after the laughter.
She sees the maid from

the kitchen throw stale
bread to the birds, thin
girl, thin arms and fingers
and features. Brought her

breakfast in bed once,
when unwell; sad, quiet,
sickly girl. The laughter
stops. Doors open

and close. Voices, greetings
and farewells, an odd laugh.
Then silence. No going
riding on a hunt today,

no horse-play; no perched
on knees with thighs finger
squeezed. She hugs her
doll and kisses its head.

Your mother will be back,
but not until you're asleep,
and tucked in dreams and
bed, her grumpy father said.

There was fresh flowers
on the grave
that Jane showed you
outside the small church  

the sun was warm
and cows
were just over
the hedge surrounding

you could hear them
munching the grass
and trotting by
unconcerned by death

or the symbols
of death
and Jane said
the tractor fell

on top of him
the other month
you stared
at the flowers laid there

colourful
bright in the sunlight
a small glass vase
holding a smaller bunch

child picked maybe
they'll have to
move out now
that he's dead

it being
a tied cottage
she said
and you could see

the sadness
in her features
the tearful eyes
mouth slightly open

words like
broken china pieces
where will they go
the mother and children?

you asked
the local council
will house them
I expect

she said
she gazed at the grave
and bent
and picked up

a small flower
from the nearby grass
and laid it
by the other flowers

God bless him
in His peace
she said softly
the cows

stilled munch
over the hedge
a bird called
from the hedgerow

you looked at her
standing there
a blue ribbon
in her dark hair

her green top
and black skirt
knee length
sad end

you said
yes
one of the dangers
of farming

she said quietly
she moved away
and you followed
and she held out a hand

and you took it
and went
into the small church
and sat

in one of the pews
inside and stared
at the stained glass windows
sunlight pouring in

like liquid gold
touching
the flagstone floor
and pew end

at the front
and her hand
still held yours
warm

alive
blood pumping
along arteries
life and living

and she and you
and outside
he sleeping
in his God's peace

and the cows
munching the grass
and birds calling
from hedgerows

and sky
and always
with you
the eternal why.

Rochester, public market,
New York, and you see
The woman standing there

With her bags full of shopping
Waiting for her husband to come
And return with the car, with a face

That tells of annoyance and speaks
Volumes. Where the **** is he,
She mutters unaware you can

Hear her as you pack away your
Shopping in the back of your old
Ford. Won’t be long he said,

Be just a moment, she says, her
Voice rising like the fat dame in
The opera house before the curtains

Fall, and here I am waiting and my
Feet aching, my migraine returning
And all he can think about is laying

A bet and going for a drink with that
Logan loon and me here standing like
Some worn out ***** desperate for

A final pickup. She turns around and
Gives you the stare, takes in your skimpy
Skirt, your dyed blond hair, then turns

Away and scratches her *** and moves
Her feet and looks up and down for her
Husband’s returning car. You close

Down the lid of the old Ford and get
Inside and sit and watch the woman
And wonder if she has kids and grand

Kids, or maybe a secret lover, some
Poor schmuck down on his life’s luck.
She swings one of the bags of shopping

In front of her legs, her agitation increasing,
Her face deepening with lines of her frustration.
He knows I don’t like him drinking while he

Drives, I told him if you’re going to drink,
Then I will drive, I don’t want the *******
Cops breathing through the car window on

Me just because of the your drunk reckless
Driving and what does he do? Goes off in the
Car to meet the Logan guy and bet and drink

And me here like some ****** waiting and
My feet aching and the piles giving me hell.
She stops as her husband’s car returns and

He pulls up and gets out real slow and puts
The bags in the back and says nothing, passing
Her by and getting back in his seat and she

Climbing in her side of the car says, Hi Honey,
Did you have a nice drink and bet with Logan?
Yeah, he says, but the horse fell and the beer

Was warm and Logan didn’t show and so I
Drank the warm beer and bet the one horse
And then came here. You? Had a good

Shopping trip? Sure, she says, her voice
Now mellow, a smile on her lips, just got
What we needed and they did my hair.

You watch as off they drive, and as they
Go off the woman gives you the middle
Digit up you sign and a dark black glare.

Alice liked the soft
voice of her mother,
the telling of stories
as she fell into sleep.

She liked it when her
mother hugged her
tight and kissed her
goodnight. Her father

seldom came to story
tell or hug or kiss or
such; seemed it was
too much. His voice

was deep and harsh
as winds, his eyes
dark and shark like,
peering without those

feelings of love or
want or admittance
into his realm of deep
concern, cared neither

if she drowned nor
burned  nor if in her
dark hours she counted
unhappiness on her

fingers and toes; he
was her father, but
one of those. She liked
to hug and kiss her

doll, poor substitute
for a father's love,
it sitting there in hers
arms unblinking and

smile-less as her father
did; feelings not there
or if so, well hid. Alice
kissed her mother's brow,

her arms, her hands,
her fingers, too, what
was a deep sad fatherless
or seemingly so, girl to do

to bridge the space or gap,
but sleep in her mother's lap

Lizbeth wants
more to love

than the once
a day glimpse

or quick meet
on the field

with her love
Benedict

during their
lunch recess

with hardly
time to talk

or to kiss
while prefect's

not watching
she wants to

be able
to make love

(at least try
what she'd read

in that book
the big girl

had shown her
and loaned her)

she wants now
to feel him

enter her
(as the book

had described)
to be one

in body
and in heart

to sense his
lips on hers

and other
sensitive

secret parts
to feel him

kiss her bits
inner thighs

lids of eyes
her small ****

but in class
during maths

bored to tears
she thinks on

Benedict
whose warm lips

had met hers
in the gym

secretly
during lunch

he shyly
not tonguing

just kissing
holding her

close to him
she sensing

his kisses
wanted more

making love
on the floor

but the bell
rang its chime

no more time
just the caught

memory
of what they

did and not
leaving her
bored and hot.

Some feller reckons he
Saw that Bonnie Parker
Girl in some diner in

Arkansas with some
Feller in a black suit
With a hat pushed to

The back of his head
And she sat there and
Smoked and said nothing

But looked around the
Place while the feller
Ordered fries & burgers

With two small side salads
And two white coffees
And no one else in the

**** diner place kind
Of recognized her face
Even though she was

Clothed in some old
Dress his grandma would
Have worn in her youth

With a beret stuck on her
Head and he felt like he
Ought to call the cops

And such but his mind
Kept telling him that that
There Parker girl was

Killed in an ambush
Back in 1934 so maybe
He got it wrong and she

Was just some girl who
Looked just like her and
So he didn't call the cops

But just sat there watching
Her eat and drink and smoke
Hanging in with his flapping

Ears in case she spoke but
She never did she just sat
And stared around the place

With a small half-moon
Smile on her ghostly face.

Lydia is quiet
going down the *****
by Arrol House
and onto

Rockingham Street
Benedict says nothing
he thinks it best
to let her brood

until she’s ready
to speak
he's seen it
in the films before

where the female
opposite the cowboy
has her moods
or quiet times

and the cowboy
lets her get on with it
while he rides off
into the sunset

to fight the bad guys
or Injuns
or have a shot
of Red Eye

in the bar in the town
watching the dancers
on the makeshift stage
he gives Lydia

a side on gaze
her straight hair
seems unbrushed
her dress is creased

and the cardigan
has a hole
in the elbow
they walk up

towards Draper Road
by the blocks of flats
he says
(hating silence)

the parents
were rowing last night
something to do
with money

or the lack of it
from what
I could gather
through the bedroom door

lying in the dark
seeing the thin line
of light
from the other room

the old man hates
being short
needs dosh
to get

his best suits
and brown shoes
saw something odd
last night

Lydia says suddenly
looking at Benedict
odd? what was odd?
he asks

studying
her thin hands
the nails chewed
my big sister

and her man friend
your sister's always odd
says Benedict
no

more odd
she made me sleep
in the tiny cot bed
which I haven't done

for years as its
too small for me really
but anyway
she made me sleep there

so she and her man friend
could sleep there
he's been turned out
of his digs

as he calls them
and Mum didn't like
the idea but Dad
in his usual drunken state

said O let him stay
a few days
until he gets himself
a place

so there am I
stuck in the cot bed
feet dangling
over the ends

just about room for me
except my backside
gets cold
when I turn over

nothing worse
Benedict says
than a cold backside
well then

Lydia says
after the lights were out
and she thought
I was asleep

I heard this noise
like squashy sound
and I lay there
with my eyes open

looking
at the dark shapes
and hearing
these odd sounds

and the giggles
and snorts and such
Benedict gazes at her
side on

her thin lips
were opening
and closing
like the goldfish

he had which fell
into the sink
out of the fish bowl
and its tiny mouth

was closing
and opening
upon the wet
white surface

then the bed springs
were going gong gong
then silence
as if they were dead

odd
Lydia says
staring
straight ahead

and I never got
to sleep in the end
for ages
what with them

and the cold
on my backside
and the trains
going over

the railway bridge
and the shunting
of coal wagons
so you're tired

Benedict says
that’s why you
were quiet just now
thought I'd done

something wrong
when I first met you
outside your flat
and you came out

with a face
suppose so
she says
and they walk along

Draper Road
to the Penny shop
where he treats her
to a penny pop drink

and 4
fruit salad sweets
and they stand
by the penny

ball game machine
on the wall
and watch some kid
press the buttons

and the ball
goes around
and around
until it disappears

in a slot
and Lydia thinks
to herself
sipping her drink

grown ups
are an odd lot.

Ingrid sees Benedict
from the balcony
he's in the Square

riding a blue scooter
a two wheeled affair
pushing himself along

with his right foot
his small quiff of hair
moving there

in the morning air
his opened necked
shirt short sleeved

and jeans blue
fading to grey
she wishes

she could ride
the scooter
could have

some fun
feel the air
of freedom

in her dull
brown hair
riding with him there

but her father
in his moody blues
has tanned her hard

and said not
to go beyond
the space of balcony

or beyond
not just out
of punishment

imposed
but in case
others see

on leg or thigh
bruises and welts
to blind the eye

now Benedict
races fast
his foot

pushing hard
and quick
O to be there

with him
to feel
his hand

in hers
or feel
his words

of humour
warm her heart
and ease her

troubled mind
now he stops
and turns

and sees
and stands
and waves

but shakes
her head
she can no more

leave her space
than the dead
can leave their graves.

Fay can see Baruch
from the window
of the living room
down on the area

of grass below
he is alone
sitting on one
of the bomb shelters

left over
from the war
she peers down at him
taking in

the cowboy hat
the silver looking
6 shooter toy gun
he seems

to be cleaning
she wishes
she was there
with him

but her father
says she is to stay in
and learn about the saints
and said he will

quiz her later
when he gets home
from work
about them to see

what she has learnt
the book
is on the chair
unopened

a bookmark
of St Benedict
lies on top
her mother

is in the kitchen
preparing soup
she knows her mother
would turn a blind eye

if she wanted
to go out
but they both know
that her father

would punish her
if he caught her out
especially
with Baruch

the Jew Boy
as her father calls him
the killer of Our Lord
he often says

although Baruch
denies being involved
in any way
she hopes Baruch

will look up
at her window
and see her
he has put his gun

in the holster hanging
from the belt
of his jeans
and holds a rifle

bought for him
for his birthday
he aims at the sky
and twirls around

pretending to shoot
pigeons flying
over head
she watches him

as he aims
at the coal wharf
where the coal carts
are being loaded

with coal
from chutes above
her father doesn't like
Baruch even though

Baruch always smiles
and says shalom
to him if he passing
her father on the stairs

of the flats
Baruch says
her father is a schmuck
but she doesn't know

what that means
but if Baruch said it  
it must be a nice term
she thinks wiping away

the steamed up glass
where she has
breathed on it
she blows him a kiss

from the palm
of her thin hand
he doesn't know
but he'll get it

any how she knows
he aims at
the steam train
passing over

the bridge
by the Duke of Wellington pub
she smiles as he does
the kickback

from his rifle
the train passes
unharmed
the driver unaware

he has been fired upon
by a cowboy
from the grass
she eyes him

determinedly
wants him to look up
at her window
he lifts the rifle

to the sky again
and fires
then he pauses  
lowers his rifle

and stares at her window
she waves
he looks
she waves frantically

he looks away
she bites a lip
he stares up
at her window

and beckons her down
with a wave
of his hand
she waves

crossing her hands
as if to say
can't come
he gazes

and then waves
and blows a kiss
from his hand
upwards

then he climbs down
from the bomb shelter
and disappears
the grass is empty

he has gone
the book of saints
lies on the chair
unopened

she goes
from the window
and picks it up
and opens

and begins to read
sensing
a good portion
of her 11 year old

girl's heart
bleeds.

Delia
once seduced

the house maid
in half term

home from school
some posh place

where she had
with success

oft bedded
the new young

maths teacher
whose glasses

thin wired
she took off

before ***
in her room

for extra
tuition

(her father
from his fat

wallet paid
for extra

maths not ***)
then after

leaving school
and the young

maths teacher
(sad female)

and having
bedded her

young cousin's
French nanny

she went to
some college

to study
the cello

and music
she had ***

the first day
with the thin

trumpeter
on the floor

above her
a girl with

luscious lips
and dark eyes

who after
a good ****

could play like
Miles Davis  

so cool that
Delia

would play her
cello ****

like lovers
embracing

she and her
instrument

then have ***
to the sound

of Coltrane's
saxophone

and the girls'
******

wanting more
sighs and moans.

Ariadne
liked her *** best

on an armchair
or the sofa

with her lover
Bernice, in charge

of the *** games,
especially

those involving
sweat cream being

slowly licked off
of her body,

or a warm tongue
moving between

her naked thighs,
which, through pleasure

over again,
brought the warm tears

to her dark eyes.
And in moments

reflecting back
to her childhood

and her father's
cruel sadistic

abusive ways,
she wondered how

over the years,
she kept intact

inside her mind
and injured heart

and tortured skin,
the deep seated

capacity
to allow love

not to be spoilt,
or the places

he had tainted,
to be tabooed

to her lover,
especially

when she slowly
slides her finger

along her spine
or between legs

satisfying
her paradise,

her pudendum,
as her lover,

laughing, calls it.
But most of all,

despite the past
of abusive

hurts and foul touch,
she still has that

ability
to overcome

the dark years,
to love her hot

lover, Bernice,
that **** *****,

all too human,
and all too much.

Sister Scholastica left the refectory after lunch; made her way to the grounds for the twice-daily recreation period. She had been one of the twelve nuns to be chosen to have their feet washed by the abbess later that day. Some were too old, some too young, she imagined, looking for a quiet spot to wander; take in the scenery; meditate on her day and the following days to come of Easter. A chaffinch flew near by; a blackbird alighted on the ground and then flew off again. She paused. Maundy Thursday. Her sister Margaret had died on a Thursday. She remembered the day her sister was found in her cot by her mother; heard the screams; the rushing of both about her; her father’s harsh words; both shouting; her being pushed aside; wondering what had happened; no one saying until the small coffin was taken out of the house for the funeral and off to the church which she was not allowed to attend. Mother was never the same afterwards. The days of lucidity grew less and less; madness crept over her like a dark spider spinning its web tightly. She sighed. Walked on through the grounds passed the stature of Our Lady green with moss and neglect. The sun warmed. Say your prayers, mother had said, always say your prayers. Mother’s dark eyes lined with bags through lack of sleep, peered at her especially when the madness held her like a bewitched lover. Poor Margaret, poor sister, only said baby sounds, off into the night. One of the nuns passed her with a gentle nod and a smile. Sister Mary. She saw her once holding the hand of another sister, late evening after Compline, along the cloister in the shadows. Father fumed at the creeping madness; Mother’s spewing words; the language foul. She stopped; looked at the apple orchard. Le repas saint: le corps et le sang de Christ, Sister Catherine said to her that morning after mass, the holy meal, the body and blood of Christ, Sister Scholastica translated in her mind as she paused by the old summerhouse. Francis, who once claimed to have loved her, wanted only to copulate; left her for some other a year later. A bell rang from the church. Sighed, Time not hers. She fingered her rosary, a thousand prayers on each bead, each bead through her finger and thumb. Her father beat her when her mother’s rosary broke in her hands; the room was cold and dark. Pray often, Mother said, in moments of lucidity. Time to return. The voice of God in the bells. She turned; walked back towards the convent, her rosary swinging gently in her hand, her eyes taking in the church tower high above the trees; a soft cool breeze kissing her cheek like Francis did once, long long ago before Christ called and made her a bride; clothed her in black as if in mourning for the sinful world she’d left behind.

After boring nature study lessons
with Miss Ashdown
and on the walk home
from school

Janice said
the man along
the balcony
of the flats

where I live with my Gran
blackened
his wife's eyes
and locked her out

of their flat
and she was crying
and shouting
to be let in

and this was 4 o'clock
in the morning
and Gran went out there
and tried

to get the man
to let his wife in
but he wouldn't
and someone phoned the police

but they said it was a domestic  
and that she'd have
to sort it out herself
and so Gran let her stay

at our place
for the rest
of the night
and so she slept

on our settee
not that she slept much
she was crying
for a long while after

here Janice paused
by the newspaper shop
and went in with you
to buy some sweets

with money
she had over
from her birthday
and you had enough

from your pocket money
to get some bubblegum
then walked on
so what happened next?

you asked
she went back
to her flat this morning
and knocked

on the door of her flat
and he let her in
by which time
he had calmed down

and was all over her
like chickenpox
as Gran said
what an ****

you said
not what Gran would say
but yes he is awful
and it's not

the first time either
and her eyes
were really bruised
this morning

if I thought
it'd do any good
you said
I'd go round there

and blow him away
with my toy 6 shooter
Janice looked at you
that wouldn't help

she said
no I guess not
you said
but at least it'd show him

we don't like his sort
in town
we don't
Janice said

once he dragged her
along the balcony
by her hair
and Gran chased him

with her broomstick
and he rushed indoors
leaving his wife
on the balcony

in a heap
I could always fire
an arrow at him
as he entered the flats

from the balcony
you said
no
don't it wouldn't do

any good
Janice said patiently
you went down
the subway together

and along
and your words
echoed
along the walls

especially the words
he's a *******
having that gross sound
as it bounced

off the walls
like bullets
from a gun
and Janice said

hush not so loud
but you liked it
you liked playing
to the crowd.

Elaine sat
on her bed

her plump hands
in her lap

palms upward

wondering
which lines there

was the life
and which was

the love line,
she'd read it

in some place
on a page

in her mum's
magazine,

which her mum
had left there

for Elaine
to study

about girls
and bodies,

periods,
the naming

of each part,
with a line

like a thin
black arrow

showing there
what was what.

What she saw
made her blush

and quickly
turned the page

to see where
her love line

or life live
was on her

upturned palm.
The bold word:

******,
stuck in her

mind like glue;
like having

a brand new
item in her

plumpish palms,
turning round

with fingers
anxiously

not knowing
what to do.

Una kissed
each one breast

at a time,
so softly,

her lover,
thought of them

as melting,
unlike when

her husband,
dear Brian,

licked at them
like some hound

lapping up
rain water.

Una put
kisses on

each rib place,
gently there,

lips brushing,
moving on,

then she kissed
***** hair

to get there,
her lover's

honey ***,
her queendom

of Eden,
arched over

her lover,
she kissed deep,

lips melting,
snaky tongue

entering,
offering

no apple,
forbidden fruit,

but soft love,
bringing on

to the boil
of deep sighs

and throat sounds.
Her lover,

in her turn,
entered slow,

her middle
firm digit,

but gently
into that

Dublin ****,
which Brian,

her husband,
never could

bring himself
to finger enter

such a place
(such as hers

not Una's).
As Una

kissed softly,
her lover,

swooning hot,
then forgot

her Brian's
*** failing,

but enjoyed
so deeply

the kisses
and tonguing

of her hot
honey ***.

The bomb site
is the best place
for chickweed
Helen said

so you went
to the one off
Meadow Row
and gathered up

handfuls of the stuff
and took them back
to your flat
to feed the budgerigar

you were looking after
for the old couple
along the balcony
who had gone away

for a few days
you watched
as Helen poked
some through the bars

of the bird cage
with her fingers
and you noticed
her tenderness

and determination
as she pushed it
through the narrow
gauged bars

her tongue poking out
of the corner
of her mouth
her eyes focusing

through her
thick lens spectacles
does it sing?
she asked

don't think so
you replied
least I’ve not
heard it do so

she talked to the budgie
in her little girl voice
and sang a few lines
of a hymn

the budgerigar
just stared at her
and walked up
the other end

of the perch
with a beak full
of chickweed
as she sang to it

she held her head
at an angle
and one of her plaits
of brown hair

hung downwards
do you want
to come back
to my place afterwards?

she said
you can help me
bath my doll Battered Betty
and then

Mum'll get us
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping
and a mug of tea

you had wanted to go
to the bomb site
for half an hour
to gather ammunition

for your catapult
but she had that look
about her face
that made you say

sure why not
and so after poking through
the remaining chickweed
and washing your hands

under the cold water tap
in the kitchen
and drying them
on the towel hanging

behind the door
you walked down
the concrete stairs
and out into the Square

and down the *****
into Rockingham Street
where you walked past
the coal wharf

where coal trucks
were being filled
with sacks of coal
and by

the Duke of Wellington pub
where you used to get
bags of crisps
and bottles of Tizer

on Sunday evenings
then under
the railway bridge
and she talked

of some boys at school
who called her 4 eyes
and fish face
O don't mind them

you said
they just can't see
your beauty
too blind

dumb idiots
do I?
she said
have beauty?

sure you do
you said
putting on
your serious face

never seen a girl
with more
and she smiled
and gazed at you

through the thick lens
of her spectacles
showing the large
brown conker like eyes

when you got to her place
her mother
was just finishing
bathing a young kid

so she let Helen
have the water after
to bath Betty
and gave her

an old towel to dry with
you helped her
prepare the doll
but she took off

the baby clothes
an old cardigan
that had seen
better days

and a creamy dress
with small buttons
at the back
which were a hell

of a job to undo
and a pair of
doll *******
that fitted tightly

and were a struggle
to get off
well
Helen said

the water's nice
and soapy
so we can wash her
as it is

and so you watched
as she dipped the doll
under the water
(it might have drowned

had it been for real)
and held it there
until bubbles came out
of the neck

and she lifted Betty out
and wiped her over
with a flowery face cloth
and Betty’s eyes

opened and closed
and you helped dry
and studied
(as boys tend to do)

the seriousness
of Helen about the task
the tongue hanging
from the side

of her mouth
her eyes focussed
the head to one side
like an animal

trying to understand
a human command
and the small hands
working with calm concern

just as you'd seen
your mother do
when she made a cake
or rolled out pastry

for a pie
once the doll was dry
and dressed
she put Betty back

in the tiny cot
her dad had made
from an orange box
and her mother said

sit down
and I’ll get you
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping

and mugs of tea
and off she went
to the kitchen
humming some hymn

and you looked at Helen
sitting there
with her plaits of hair
and big eyes

showing no fear
and a smile
from ear
to lovely ear.

Baby day.
That was it,

that day her
baby died,

stiff and white,
the Teddy,

dumb looking,
sat staring,

just a toy
not caring.

Early day
is the worse

of all times,
when her world,

baby world,
ceased to be,

and numbness
took over,

dark hours,
days and months,

and now years.
None went there,

baby's room,
except her;

the husband
ignored it,

the others,
grandparents,

other kids,
past tense talked

baby's death,
turned blind eye

to the place
of the death.

She alone
visited

each morning
to check cot,

pat Teddy,
tidy up

the blankets,
one pillow,

and pull down
the toy string

making an
angel sing.

Then each night
she repeats

rituals
of palm blown

soft kisses
to the spot

where ghostly
baby smiles

phantom lips,
that no one,

except she,
and teddy,

ever see.

She pretends
he's not there,

but he is,
over her,

making love
the third time

for that night,
she just there

legs apart,
empty heart,

he keen to,
making sounds

like a pig
in a trough,

his backside
rising up

and then down,
captured in

the moonlight,
she seeing

over his
broad shoulders.

Not his fault,
her husband,

dumb Brian,
she wishes

it was her
lover there,

dear Una,
from Dublin,

*******
softly her

******,
planting those

hot kisses
on places

Brian misses,
as she moves

over her,
******* her

not licking
as Brian

clumsy does.
O to be

with Una
in her bed

warm and close,
not with him,

dumb Brian
having ***,

getting there
once again

that sticky
***** dose.

Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for ***; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of ***. She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****.
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.

Benedict waits
by the pram sheds
in the Square
for Lydia

to come out
of her flat
he wants to take her
to the big bomb site

behind the tabernacle
although she won't
tell her mum
where she's going as such

she'll say to the park
to play on the swings
or slide or other such thing
just as he did

to his mother
the baker rides by
on his horse drawn cart
the horse walking slow

the baker sitting
on top of the cart
nodding his head
still no sign

of Lydia
Benedict sighs
he hates wasting time
likes to be out

and at it
a man with his boxer dog
walks by
the man puffing

a cigarette
hat at the back
of his head
the door opens

and Lydia comes out
in her red and white
checked dress
and white cardigan

she looks stressed
and walks towards Benedict  
looking behind her
at the door

of the flat
got out then?
he says
just about

she says
had to help
put the washing
in the copper

and gather up all
the ***** stuff
and take *******
to the shoot

and just done
he nods
and says
a girl's work

is never done
as my old man says
well it is for now
she says

where are we going?
she asks
big bomb site
behind the tabernacle

he says
isn't it
dangerous there?
she says

not if you’re careful
and don't let
the Rozzers see you
he says

so they walk
down the *****
and along
Rockingham Street

she talks of her mother
being in a mood
about her father's drinking
and O yes it's all right

for him to *****
and sing
and play the fool
but it's me

who has to feed
you kids
and keep a roof
over your heads

she says
her mother said
Benedict listens
takes in

her straight hair
her thin arms
and legs
her pale features

her mouth opening
and closing
like a fish
in a bowl

they cross over the road
and walk up
and along the street
behind the Trocadero

by the smaller bomb sites
along the narrow alley
and out
on the main road

where they go down
the subway
to get across
to the tabernacle

she still talking
about her mother
and her big sister
and the bloke

she brought home
the other night
and wanted to take him
to the bedroom

for some reason
or other
Lydia adds frowning
the subway echoes

her words
they float
then bounce
off the walls

as they climb the stairs
up and out
she stops
and looks

at the bomb site anxiously
will other kids be there?
she asks
usually are

he says
but that doesn't
matter none
they'll keep to themselves

and we can keep to ours
she bites her lip
and follows him
as they climb

between hoardings
and up and into
the bomb site
with its half standing houses

and ruins
and walls
and houses empty
with no roofs

or roofs
with only three walls
she hesitates
stands with her fingers

in her mouth
want if the Rozzers come?
she says
leave it to me

he says confidently
she follows him
as he climbs
onto a wall

and over the top
come on
he says
she climbs after him

mind you don't
scrape your knees
he says
and helps her

over the wall
holding one
of her hands
she gets up and over

and stands inside
a bombed out house
it stinks
she says

yes probably
some tramps
****** in here
he says

not still in here
is he?
she says anxiously
no long ago scarpered

he says
he walks through a room
and she walks after him
holding her nose

looking around her
bits of wallpaper hang
from walls
a doorway with no door

a window without glass
that looks out
on an abandoned garden
full of weeds

she follows him up
a riggedy stairway
holding on
to a rocking bannister

and up
to a landing
with three rooms
going off

in each direction
he stands still
taps the floorboards
with his foot

should be safe
he says
is it?
she says nervously

course it is
he says
walking carefully
over the floor

of the room
she stands
by the doorway
what if the floorboards

are rotten
and you fall through?
she says softly
then I get

to the bottom
quicker than I came up
he says smiling
come on

he says
beckoning her over
she stands still
fiddling with her fingers

then she bites her fingers
of one hand
and holds her groin
with the other

it won't give way
he says
she holds herself
it might

she says
then we die together
he says
what away to go eh?

she looks at him
standing there
with his hazel eyes
and quiff of hair

and his hand
held out
towards her
she walks gingerly

over the floorboards
one step
after another
until she reaches

his hand
and grips it tight
and they are there
in the middle

of the room
she feeling
as if she's wet herself
and he like one

who has climbed
Mount Everest
and is about
to plant a flag

with glee
she looks at him
and he looks out
the window

as far
as his hazel eyes
can see.

Converte nos, Sister Teresa whispered, leaning forward in the darkness of the church; convert us, she repeated, sensing the infirmarian nun beside her, hearing the breath and muttered prayers. She had insisted on being wheeled into the church for Compline; had got her way; was pleased she was in the pew where she'd sat for the last ten years. She loved the silence before it all began; the sense of space; the soft opening of the Confiteor, the movement of bodies like a wave of water over the blacked-out walls and high roof of the church. She brought her arthritic hands together; dug deep for a fresh prayer, but all was used; all had done before; all spread wide over her life of contemplation; in and out of her light and alternating darkness. The infirmarian muttered something. Sister Teresa shrugged her shoulders; inclined her ear; moved her head and unseeing eyes. Was it Sister Bernadette? Or was it another? She couldn't tell; all were the same in her darkness, except the touch; hand on hand; whispered words. Long ago, Jude or Judas had kissed; had betrayed. The sound of footsteps on flagstones; the rustle of habits and clicking beads; a sense of breathing and life; entering into the shared darkness and blackness, except for the red altar light to inform of the Crucified's presence and the all-seeing-eye. Sighed. Waited. Held breath. Reached for the sister's hand or arm to reassure, to sense she was not alone in the dark and that she had not died and sunk to dimness and damnation of another dark. The infirmarian tapped her hand. Relief. Converte nos, she mumbled, convert us, she repeated. The Confiteor opened up as if the whole world had breathed out in one voice; had poured out the world's sins in a soft eruption of voices. She breathed in. Clutched her hands. Wanted the closeness and nearness of all; wanted to be held; to be kissed; wanted to see the face of the sister beside her who sat close and whispered her own Confiteor. Ora pro nobis, she whispered, pray for us, let me not be lost in this darkness. Where was Papa? Where is Mama? Clare where are you? she muttered, her eyes searching the blackness, reaching out with a hand into the empty space before her. Hand on hand. Whispered voice. The chant rose and fell like a gentle sea carrying the prayers of the black-robed sisters. Jude or Judas and the kisses and betrayal. Dead now; all dead; all gone. Left here, she muttered, like a beached fish, flapping on the emptying sands of my hourglass like a whimpering child. She clutched her breast; sensed a pain. Leaned her head neatly on the sister's shoulder; sank slowly into her arms like a child searching for its mother's breast and the comforting embrace of warmth and love. Stillness. Peace. Darkness. Light.

Miss Cleaves says,
come over,
bring a bottle,

I’ll put on some music
we can smooch to( Mahler?)
so he goes over,

picks up a bottle on the way,
medium priced,
not the top shelf,

and rings her bell.
Glad you could come,
she says,

her voice silkier
than silk,
warmer than hell.

He follows her
to the lounge,
takes off his jacket,

undoes his tie,
slips off his shoes
(new carpet).

Take a seat,
she says ,
I’ll get us some glasses,

he watches her move,
the best of all *****,
he decides, glancing,

taking in,
******* in air,
sitting there.

On goes the Mahler,
the 1st, the Titan,
she said it was, last time,

the time he had
a *******
before the 2nd movement,

had his hand
up her skirt,
feeling around.

In she comes,
swaying, smiling,
carrying the *****,

big eyes,
blue like lakes,
her bust,

busting to get out,
and flop about.
She talks of work,

business doing ok,
could be better,
if only and so on...

He senses her hand
on his thigh,
rubbing back and forth,

fingers walking,
her voice yakking on,
and the music

piping through,
he thinking
of that time

she had him
do her good,
eyes shut,

seemingly blind,
taking her
from behind.

Then the doorbell chimed,
in mid game,
who the heck is that?

she said,
getting off the bed,
walking to the door,

leaving him
buck naked on the floor.
There was laughter;

about to take a bath,
she said,
to whoever.

A painting on her wall,
foxhounds, chasing a fox,
horse riders on a hunt.

He thought, laying back,
relaxing, thinking of her,
wanting her, her lovely

buttocks and ****.
More laughter, more talk,
the whoever was still there,

while he lay **** naked
as mother nature
intended, bare.

That was then,
she never came back
for 15 minutes or so

and he had gone to sleep
on her bed, pillow
holding his head,

seemingly dead.  
Now she's on the ball,
getting him fired up,

getting his pecker going,
smiling, music piping,
but outside there's snow.

**** Morecraft said
about joining the Scouts
who used
the church hall

good venture
he said
we do things
tie knots

and learn
about nature  
how to start a fire
with two bits of wood

and sing songs
around campfires
and so on he went
walking home from school

you wanting to join the scouts
like you wanted diarrhoea
listening half heartedly
thinking of what

was for tea
or what to do
after school
and where to go

and we learn how
to put up tents
**** added
the last straw

ok
you said
I’ll think about it
see you around

and so off he went
along Newington Butts  
and you went down
the subway and along

whistling
hands in pockets
when you saw Ingrid
up ahead with bent shoulders

and lowered head
what’s up? you said
and she showed you
a tear

in her school dress
a rip in the side
showing
her white vest

my dad’ll **** me
(not quite you knew
but he’d beat her
black and blue)

what do I do?
she said crying
wiping her eyes
don’t go home

just yet
you said
my mum’ll sew it up
like new

we’ll go to
my place first
that’s what we’ll do
so you walked

up and out the subway
and across the bomb site
and up Meadow Row
(her mother or father

needn’t know)
and up the concrete stairs
to your flat and in
and you explained

to your mother
what was wrong
and she said she’d fix it
with needle and thread

and so Ingrid
took off the dress  
and gave it
to your mother to sew

and sat there
in the sitting room
in her vest and underwear
fiddling with her fingers

looking around
the room shyly
arms and legs
carrying badges

of black and blue
go get Ingrid
a glass of Tizer
and biscuit

your mother said
and don’t gawk so
and so you went
to the kitchen

and poured
a glass of Tizer
and got a biscuit
from a tin

and took them in
Ingrid wide eyed said
thank you
and took the biscuit

and glass
and nibbled
and sipped
and you told her

about the scouts
and what
Morecraft said
about tents

and tying knots
and lighting fires
with sticks
and such

(not caring much)
and all the time
eyeing the bruises
and welts on legs

and arms
and your mother said
don’t stare so
at Ingrid in her

white( near grey)vest
and underwear
so you changed
the subject

to the cinema
about some cowboy film
where the good guy
twirls his gun

and goes pop pop pop
you said
and gets the baddies
dead

just like that
and how after
the boring bit
where he kisses a girl

he twirls
his gun again
(you need
to practice that)

and she listened
as she sipped her drink
and nibbled the biscuit
sitting there

with her badges
of blue and black
in her underwear
and a red line

across
her skinny back.

The nurse turns the key
in the lock,
then pockets it
and walks on
with the tray of sandwiches
and puts it on the table
in the main ward.

He has watched her
come and lay
the tray down
and watches her
walk back
towards
the locked door.

He times it,
the journey
there and back,
how long it takes
to unlock the door
then that gap
of a few moments
between opening the door
and laying the tray aside
while she locks again.

Christine watches him,
stands beside him,
don't try
running out again,
she says,
they'll get you
like they did last time.

He sighs,
this place
is getting me down,
the locked doors,
the ward,
the confinement.

I know,
she says,
I’m here,
too, remember.

Each time you try
to escape
they’ll judge you
as unfit to leave.

Get a sandwich
and a coffee,
and we'll go sit
by the window,
away from the others,
she says.

So they get sandwiches
and pour coffee
and go sit
by the large window
of the sleeping quarters,
which looks out
on the woods
and grounds.

They are alone,
the others
are in the main lounge,
watching the TV,
others asleep
drugged up,
or sitting reading.

We'll get out one day,
she says,
but not, if you keep
trying those escapes
or suicide attempts.

He watches the grey sky,
birds drift there,
black rooks,
white and grey gulls.

Do you think
there is a God out there?
he asks.

Who knows,
she says,
scanning the horizon,
taking in the distant trees,
field covered
in white snow,
maybe there is,
maybe there isn't,
depends if it makes you
feel good to believe
he does or not.  

He watches a tractor
ploughing through
the snow covered field,
birds following
in the tracks.

This doesn't make sense
if there's no God,
he says,
how did it get here
all this stuff?

She looks at him,
the bloodshot eyes,
the growth of beard,
the hair unkempt.

More questions than answers,
she says softly,
why waste your time,
life is to live,
live for ***** sake;
I ain't wasting
any more time
on the ****
who left me
at the altar.

He gazes at her,
her thin frame
and figure
and pale complexion,
her hair brushed neat
into a ponytail.

I always wonder
about things,
he says.
Who made this
and why
and who did what
and when.

Well don't,
she says,
leave that for those
who care a ****,
live your life
and to the full,
because once you're dead,
your dead.

The tractor turns back
along the field,
gulls and rooks follow,
flap of wings,
exchange of black
and white and grey.

He sips the coffee,
she nibbles a sandwich,
her dressing-gown is open
at the top, revealing
a sight of ****,
flesh, soft, perfumed.

She doesn't bother
to cover up,
the room is warm,
the one who said he cared,
left her at the altar,
broken like some
thrown away doll.

He looks away,
takes the image,
folds it into the
see-some-other-time box,
dream time,
night time,
folding his arms
around an empty
dream, night,
he out and free,
and she building up,
what once feel down,
no more being left
at the altar
by another clown.

Blessed art thou amongst women. Sister Teresa closed the book. Brushed hand across book cover dispersing dust and thoughts. And blessed is the fruit…She lowered her hands to her stomach and tapped three times. Empty tomb; empty womb. Looked across the room at the crucified hung on the white wall; hammered and nailed; battered and bruised by time. She brought her hands together. Let flesh touch flesh. Jude long gone, in flesh at least. Papa had gone the year before; no last farewell; no last goodbye. Sighed. Lifted her eyes to the off-whiteness of ceiling; lifted her heart and mind to a world beyond. Bell rang from bell tower. Voice of Christ, some said. Closed eyes. Held breath. Then released breath as if God had touched her afresh.  Men not to be trusted, Papa had said. Last will and testament; his last words, she mused. She rose from the table and book; stood gazing at the black book cover; stood in a silence like one struck dumb. Bell rang. Sighed. Moved across the room; opened the door; closed it  with softness of summer’s breeze. Mama wore black in perpetual mourning. Black on black; death on death. She moved along the cloister; touched the wall; felt the roughness of brick on brick. Jude’s image pale as ghost; off to her right she thought he lingered. All in the mind, Mother Abbess had said; smiled; patted her hand. Not to touch, not over much. She paused by church door and felt for the stoup; dipped finger in water; hoped for blessedness; made sign from breast to breast; scanned the choir stalls for Sister Clare; not there, she mused; disappointment stabbed her; drove her inwards; struggled with her night of soul. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Jude kissed her once or was it more? She mused, taking her place in choir; shifting her breviary; clutching it tight. Nun followed nun; each to their own place; each to their God prayed, she mused, opening the page, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; made the sign from shoulder to shoulder; nodded the beginning of prayer and chant. Not to be trusted, Papa had said. Not seen last nine months; sorely missed; huge chasm in her breast and heart. Turned the page. Lifted her voice. Eyes flowed across the black and white as if swimming through the sea of despondency. No Sister Clare. I do declare a pain is here; wish you were here; near me now, she said inwardly, following the words like lost sheep. Where are You now my God? Sighed. Held the breviary; felt the weight of it; like her sins it weighed her down. Sunlight shone through upper windows; touched the stone floor between choir stalls; made as if fire burned between them, she mused, letting eyes move from the page; allowing memories to stir like giants waking from slumber. Flesh on flesh; hand on hand to touch. Not over much, not over much. And where are You? she asked in her silence; settled her feet in stillness. Pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour. Where had time gone? Papa gone; Mama long since dust to dust; Jude blown to the four corners in battle; all so sorely missed. No Sister Clare. Chant ended. Silence. Mother Abbess made sign; blessed all gathered; gathering her black robes she moved slowly down the aisle with her bride groomed but invisible Christ and the sisters followed each too with their battered and bruised groom inwardly held; separately loved. Sister Teresa waited and watched. Knelt and sighed. Where was her groom?  Had He gone or died? Closed eyes. Sighed. Brought hands together; moved lips and mumbled prayer, which lingered just above her head; blessed the air. Now and at the hour.

Sister Teresa felt the cold evening wind through the cloisters. Shadowy figures sounded near by; the sense of waiting; the held breath; the stillness before the office of Vespers. She refused the wheelchair; wanted to walk along the cloisters to the church. A novice sister held her arm to guide her; Sister Bernadette's young hand on her elbow. Blind now apart from shadows and imagined faces from memory. She sighed. Sensed touch of the novice's hand. Breathed in the evening air; remembered the years of waiting in the cloister; the anticipation; the prepared prayers; the youthful voice gone now, she mused, releasing a breath-like prayer. She recalled Sister Clare's embrace by the wall where the cloister bell-rope hung like a tail. God is my witness and saviour, Sister Maria had said. She's dead too, Sister Teresa, thought, peering through her darkness at the shapes and figures ahead. Was it Jude who had kissed her once or was it more? She wasn't sure. Time distorts, she muttered softly, but none took notice. She breathed the air; sensed the dampness; the evening prayers hung in the air of yesteryear. The novice squeezed affectionately; her whispered voice soft and child-like. Did she need the toilet? Was that what she said? Words carried off in the air like the dead friends of her contemplative life. She shook her head; squeezed shut her eyes until lights flashed behind them like a stormy night. Whether the novice was pretty or not, she had no idea; had no sense of her except the touch of hand or softness of voice. Papa was in his heaven, but Mama where was she? Do not let them touch she had said; men are such creatures. Flesh on flesh; lip to lip. Jude had kissed and lain with her, she thought through her muddled mind. Clare had held; dead and buried; her mole-tilled ground holy still, she wanted to say, but only sighed. Movement. Bodies moved. Sister Bernadette touched her arm; gently prodded onwards; said gentle words; failed to keep hold of; slipped away like soap in a bathtub. She tried to clutch the passing words, but silence returned black and deep as the darkness of her days and nights. Chill in the air. Sighed. The footsteps on stone; the echo of chants surrounding as she moved to the pews reserved once for the lay-sisters, none now, all left or dead and swept away like the dead leaves of autumn. She sat; uttered the prayers; listened for the soft voice of the novice nun; wanted to feel; to hold; to touch. Not too much, not overmuch. God be my witness and saviour, she whispered between prayers and chants, recalling a kiss, an embrace, but not of Judas, not of Judas. She breathed the chill air; imagined Clare was there; imagined Christ's breath on her cheek and brow; a light far off beckoning from a distant hill.

Miryam meets you at the bar
of the base camp in Madrid.
She has an orange juice
and cereals
and a coffee chaser.

Did you sleep o.k?
you ask, sitting beside her,
with a coffee
and toast and cigarette.

Sure,
she says,
afterwards.  

Her eyes light up
like lights
on a pinball machine
when it's played well.

You? she asks,
you sleep all right?
Sure, but the ex-army guy
wasn't too pleased,
me getting back in the tent
at that hour,
you say.

**** him,
she says.
No thanks,
you reply.

She sips the juice,
her lips hold the glass
as she drinks,
her mouth is fish-like
as she swallows.

You talk about
the ex-army guy's moans
about his mother's boyfriend,
how they don't
get along(he
and the boyfriend),
and how he feels
left out and how
he got thrown out
the army because
he was suicidal.

She sips,
and you watched
her eyes feasting on you
as they did
the night before,
and you recall her
******* in
the small space
of her tent,
the girl she shared with
off ******* some guy
she'd met on the coach,
the tall guy
with an Australian accent.

You watched her,
as you disrobed yourself,
the space throwing
you together,
each touching each,
kissing and *******
and kissing.

He still feel suicidal?
she asks.
Guess so,
you say,
tried to talk him
through it all,
laying there
in my sleeping bag,
half asleep,
listening
and talking to him,
eyes closing,
and his voice
becoming a drone.

Anyway,
he seemed happier after,
snoring not long after,
as I was laying there
thinking of you.

She eats the cereal,
talks about the girl
coming back
just after you left,
well ******
and happy,
glassy eyed,
giggling
and stinking of *****.

You sip the coffee,
take in her small ****,
pressing against
her coloured top,
flowers and balloons,
patterns, eye catching.

She begs a smoke
from your packet
and you nod,
and she takes one out
and lights up
from the red
plastic lighter,
the cigarette,
held between her lips,  
kissable lips,
lickable.

Yes, it had been
a good night,
you and she
and someone
strumming a guitar
from the bar,
nearby,
loudly singing,
not far.

It was here
they used to come,
he fourteen,

she thirteen,
walking to the church
for choir,

between tombstones,
along
the flagstone path,

she peasant like,
seemingly like
some Russian girl,

treading the tundra
in icy cold,
her scarf tight

about her neck,
her coat buttoned up
to chin's hold,

the dark brown hair
messed up
by the evening

November wind.
Now he stands alone,
she has gone,

some ages passed,
death and time
cutting her down

before her prime,
cancer feeding,
and drawn

and dragged
and gone
into the dark

beyond his sight
into
the eternal night.

He stands
and thinks of her,
and the place

they stood,
and where
they first kissed

beneath a full moon,
embraced in love,
wordless, hugging,

cloaked by the moon's
pushed away shadows,
young love,

searched for
and found,
but then gone,

he his way,
she hers,
the countless moons

have come and gone,
full and waning,
waxed and fled,

now he sees her,
not alive,
but in

his older,
lonely
head.

Nima waits
by the Embankment
of the Thames
she has a few hours

freedom
a few hours to do
as she pleases
(within reason)

the doctors said
OK but no
needle pushing
no pill popping

and so she agreed
and was on her way
although the ward sister
wasn't pleased

she didn't like
her wordiness
her being
too up front

for lying
on her bed at night
******* her ****
thinking of Naaman

but she went anyway
took the train
and sits waiting
having put

on the all
too tight dress
(her father's words
on his rare visits)

and the tight top
with yellow birds
and she watches
the water flowing

the boats and barges
and the occasional
row boat going by
and then he's there

having come out
the tube station
concerned looking
his hair dark

and groomed
the jeans
and open necked shirt
been waiting long?

he asks
yes been almost
picked up twice
as a *****

she says
told them
go **** themselves
he looks at her

and beyond
the river's dullness
buses passing by
cars

motorcycles
lorries
the city alive
sorry about that

he says
train delays
she smiles
no matter

you're here now
how long
have you got?
he asks

a few hours of grace
she says
the doctors were good
said I could come

although the ward sister
the *****
almost put her oar in
but here I am

all yours
well for a while
at least
so where are we going?

how about a coffee
in the park
and a lay down
on the grass to chat

and smooch and relax
no art or cinema
or record shops
or window shopping

he says
or ***
she says
no place

unless you want to
want to have ago
in the bushes
or maybe be daring

and have it away
on  a park bench?
she smiles
no coffee

and a chat will do
he says
besides
I don't perform well

in public
and so they walk up
the road
and cross

by Trafalgar Square
and on down
and into the park
she talking about

dying for a fix
and other things
and he talking about
his boring job

the sitting
and drilling holes
into metal
or the pressing

of two sides
of metal together
and how he'd heard
the new Beatles' LP

something about
a Doctor Pepper
they buy two coffees
and talk on

she gazing at his hair
the eyes staring at her
his mouth opening
and closing

bringing her words
his fingers touching hers
his having dark hairs
along the fingers

hers none
white
thin
good for *******

and he studying
her eyes
seeing himself there
in that darkness

in that faraway place
far from God's kingdom
but near(he thinks)
to His grace.

Picking out
the right sized stone
was just the start
and Lydia helped

picking up
this one then
that from
the bomb site

and showing it
to him
in her small palm
he took it

and placed it
in the catapult sack
and pulled back
and aimed

at some tin can
he'd set up
some distance away
and it go

and the tin can
went flying with a zing
and she laughed
and said

you got it straight on
and clapped
her hands together
then looked around

for another
while he went
and set the tin can
up again

on the stone wall
of what had once been
the side of a house
now blown

wide apart
he watched her
searching
all intent

as if
she were seeking gold
or coins that had dropped  
she liked being

his ammunition collector
better than being
at home
with her snoring

older sister
and her mother
in hell frozen over mood
and her father

sleeping off
the night before *****
better here
with Benedict

being his
ammunition supplier
his right hand girl
besides he often

bought her a drink
of pop or sweets
from the Penny shop  
his 9 year old features

seeming older
and her 8 year old face
seeming younger
thin

pale
her hands
frail looking
fingers

skin and bones
here
she said
here is this OK?

and she ran to him
and showed him
and he said
yes just right

and he put it
in the sack
of the catapult
and aimed

then said
hey you want to try?
but she shook her head
no I might hit

something
I ought not to
and besides
I like watching you

and so he aimed again
and let it go
and it zoomed
through the air

and caught the tin
and it flew spinning
with a yelping sound
and hit the ground

and she thought
of her big sister
throwing up
in the early hours

after the binge
and night out
and her mother
bellowing out

in the early hours
you ****** *****  
and her father saying
O quit the mouth

let the kid learn
her own way
and she Lydia
turning over

away from
her sister's ****
and back
the sound of vomiting

in her ears
and he tucking
the catapult in
the back pocket

of jeans
thought of his younger sister
getting herself
run over by a car

cuts and bruises
a small scar
otherwise OK
the other day

and right
he said
looking at Lydia
come let's go

get us
a penny drink of pop
from the Penny shop
and she smiled

and walked beside him
his John Wayne swagger
cowboy hat
on his head

ready to shoot
any bad cowboys
who came along
bang bang dead.

She'd run
from the shelter
of the old

corrugated shed
to the shelter
of the trees

you followed
seeing her ahead
happy to be away

from school
a job lined up  
and you too

glad to be away
from the brain washing
and having that job

at the garage
to begin
and she ran

through the narrow rides
of the wood
knowing you

were behind her
looking back
at you as

she ran
and past
the small pond

and she stood there
looking at it
the pond water

discoloured
by cast away tins
and *******

and she said
not what it used to be
and you stood

beside her looking
at the still pond
the brown water

and she said
I used to come here
as a little girl

and bathe here
with my sister
wish I'd known

you said
before you came
she said

anyway
we were only 8 or 9
as were you

so it wouldn’t have
amounted to much
depressing seeing it

like this
she added
let's go elsewhere

you said
go to the our lake
she smiled

yes you remember
our name
for the large pond  

so you both
walked on
and over

the wooden fences
and across the field
by cows

avoiding cow pats
and over
by the lake

where she sat
on the grass
gazing

at the clear water
the ducks swimming there
fish under

the water's skin
just visible
do you remember

when we first
came here?
she asked

you nodded
we were so
shy together

we just about
found words
to speak

and our fingers
nearly touched
and I blushed

and it was
so innocent
so white

and silky
and that first kiss
that was so magical

so non-******
and she laughed
and you sat beside her

and said
are all first kisses
like that

do you think?
ours was
she said

you thought on it
so unexpected
so unplanned

under
a full moon
lips warming

softly wet
and she turned
to you there

sitting by the lake
and gave another kiss
deeper

longer
more tongue
and warmth

more ******
and sensual
and the ducks

and fish
beneath
the water's skin

cared not
if it was love
or lust

or grace
or sin.

Afternoon sun touched the cloister garth. The office of None had just completed. Sister Teresa walked slowly down the cloister from the church, letting her failing eyesight search for the opening to the garth. Heard the clink of cups on saucers; the chatter of voices; nearby the smell of the flowers in the flowerbeds. Her white stick tapped against the wall as she walked; her arthritic hand gripped it painfully. Felt the sun's rays on her face; the slight breeze touch her habit like as saucy child. Remembered a summer long ago before she entered the convent. The green of grass in her memory and a kiss. Who's kiss? She searched her memory like one seeking through an old chest. Jude. Yes, Jude. Smiled. Felt opening in the wall; turned into the garth. She remembered vaguely his face; felt the grass beneath her feet. Someone touched her arm with their hand. One of the sisters spoke. Not Sister Clare. Dead now. Most of them were she knew. She listened to the tone of the voice; her eyes failed her again. Sister Mark. Her mind grasped the image that fitted the voice. She smiled. Sister Mark had led her by the arm and asked about tea and cake. Tea, yes, no cake, she said. Mama had a similar voice. Mama had said not to let them touch. Not men; not to be trusted. Or was that papa? She couldn't remember. Take it easy, Mother Abbess had told her; take things steady. Fifty years since she came that summer. She recalled the heat of that summer. The cloister's smell of bread and incense. Papa's face when she left home that day; the tears in his eyes; the awkward smile on his lips. No one came now. All dead and buried. Clare in the convent cemetery next to the wall; mole holes along by the gravestone. That had been an adventure in the art of love. A secret known only to God and them. Mea culpa, she whispered. Sister Mark handed a cup and saucer; soft hand touched hers; sweet voice spoke of the weather and the smell of the flowers. Sighed. Breathed in the air. Sipped tea. Cup rattled in the saucer. Stood here once and spoke to all; now few speak; only the kind and brave. Sister Mark spoke of the new novices and of the freshness about them. Sister Teresa looked about her; a vague scan of images; of faces in white and their youthful giggles and chatter. She had been as such once. She, her loves, and her memories. The bell tolled from the cloister clock; voices stilled. The breeze calmed. The sun eased off and hid behind a cloud. Someone took her cup and saucer and placed a hand on her arm. Not to touch, not over much. Mama had said. One of the dead. The God blessed dead. She walked back along the cloister, the hand still on her arm; flesh on flesh. Not to touch, not over much, a soft voice whispered of long ago.

All through the woodwork lesson
and through a double dose of maths,
he thinks of her, the kiss on the sports
field, the brushing of his lips on hers.

He'd almost cut his finger on a saw,
being preoccupied with thoughts of
her, her eyes through glasses, the
innocence of lilies about her, the way

she looked so surprised, he having
kissed her.  Not planned, no he didn’t
plan the kiss, he was just going to talk
with her, get to know her more and

better, when the impulse to kiss, over
came him, as if some rarely seen fish
of the sea had drawn him into depths
he'd not known. He sits on the school

bus, got on before she had, looks out
the window, shy of seeing her, now
wondering what she'd say after that
kiss, her reaction. Trevor says softly

something about the Frump, he doesn't
turn, looks at the kids waiting to get
on the bus, excited, engaged in their
conversations, laughing. He is aware,

that she may be on the bus now, he is
so self obsessed, he can hear his heart
beat, thump through his chest. Trevor
next to him, talking across the aisle,

says something about her, but he isn’t
listening, stares out. He feels as if he's
under a microscope, eyes gawking at
him, words around him. Maybe others

saw the kiss? He didn’t think about that,
never gave it thought. The radio is on,
the music blares, some one is singing
about love and missing her. He relaxes

as the bus move off, senses no one is
aware of the kiss, no talk, or chatter
of it. Even Trevor, who is the vanguard
of gossip, says nothing about that at all.

John is aware she sits across the aisle,
a little bit back. He could possibly see
her, if he glanced over the top of his seat,
but he doesn't, he looks at the passing

scene, trees, hedges, fields, cottages.
He tries to calm his beating heart, the
thump seems almost audible, as if
the whole bus can hear its thump.  

He closes his eyes and thinks of her,
the lips kissed, the eyes behind her
spectacles, her mouth, the way her
words were stilled by his kiss, were

drenched in her ****** mouth; he had
touched her, too. His hand had soft
touched her arm, drew her body closer
to him. She smelt of countryside, air,

and hay and fields. Her lips there were
feather soft; he could have slept there,
lay there, brushed the lips, as if a red  
butterfly had landed, sought refreshment.

He reruns the kiss, in his head, plays
it over and over. She is there just across
the way; he can almost sense her eyes
on him, like feelers reaching over the

seats to touch him. He opens his eyes,
Trevor has football cards in his inky
hands, he talks of this player and that,
that football team and this, but all John
can think on is the butterfly landing kiss.

During boring
school lessons
he looks across
at Yehudit at her desk

takes in her brown hair
shoulder length
her profile
the eyes

nose
and how she sits
her large bust
her pen in hand

writing
and the teacher writing
on the board
boring stuff

time wasting scribbling
he watches her
her head bent
intent on the work

and thinks
of that time
by the pond
in the wood

he lying there
on the grass
sun above his head
and she came

and sat beside him
her peasant simplicity
overwhelming him
her show of leg

as she moved closer
her eyes large
and fire filled
and he told her

about the large butterfly
he'd seen in the woods
red and black
and white tips

and as he spoke
she touched his thigh
moved her hand along it
her fingers doing

that walking thing
on the jeans
and he proceeded
with the butterfly talk

as her fingers
walked deeper
and pressed and pressured
and he said

OK so the butterfly
isn't the most
intense subject
but hey

what are you doing
with the walking?
raising an interest
she said

and he said
two can play
at that game
and touched her leg

the soft flesh
moving his hand
just beneath
her skirt

warm and silky
and now once
you've written
that down

the teacher says
dragging Baruch
from his day dream
of memories

I'll talk about
the exports and imports
of the nation
and so he goes on

but Baruch
is only half listening
he studies Yehudit's hands
how they join together

as if in prayer
elbows on the desk
her chin resting
on the finger tips

and how her knees touch
issuing from the skirt
beneath the desk
and that time

he kissed her
under the full moon
and he howled afterwards
like some hound

and she laughed
and it echoed
around trees
and they kissed again

dismissing
the November rain.

Brody's mother
was quite the dame
she had this way
of inviting you in

after school
and offering things
to eat and drink
and hey boys

she said
why not try out
the outside pool?
Brody said

OK
and so you followed him
but what do I wear?
you asked

O nothing
he said
no need
it's only us

and well
the neighbours
can't see ****
and so you went

with him to his room
and undressed
and he gave you
a big white towel

and you went
downstairs with him
to the outside pool
his mother was there

and said
how about a drink of pop?
sure
Brody said

and you nodded
holding tight
to the towel
and off she went

in her red
two piece swimsuit
her **** quite neat
in the sack

of the suit
come on in John
Brody said
don't be shy

and so you dropped
the towel
and climbed in
the pool

and the water
was warm
and came up
to your chest

he swam around
but you just stood there
with arms folded
over your chest

after few moments
his mother came out
with a tray of pop drinks
in glasses with straws

gosh John
she said
looking at you
you sure are white

do you hide your body
from the sun?
Brody laughed
guess so

you said
she smiled then put
the tray on a small
white table

by the pool
and climbed in
the pool
her top piece floating

like pink piggies
you looked
then looked away
she talked

of Brody's father
how he liked to
just lounge
on the water

like a lily
Brody guffawed
some lily
he said

his mother smiled
as she looked at you
her eyes blue liquidy
as if they were

of water
she swam towards you
you afraid of the water John?
can't swim

you said
can't you
she said sexily
Brody you never said

John couldn't swim
didn't know
he said
swimming off

to the other end
of the pool
I’ll have to
show you how

she whispered
would you like me
to show you how?
she came nearer

her piggies seemed
pleased to see you
it's all a matter
of confidence

she said
trust in yourself
and the water
you looked at her

liquidy eyes
she put her arms
under the water
and held you

lift your feet
off the bottom
of the pool
she said

you tried but your feet
wouldn't move
here
she said

and she uprooted you
and you fell
into the water
and splashed

and flapped your arms
like a drowning bird
she held you tight
and said

relax your body
in my arms
you stiffened
then slowly relaxed

in her arms
holding you
to her
the piggies brushing

against you
her breath applely  
and perfumery
right

she said
slowly flap
your legs
in the water

and move the water
with your hands
and arms
and so you did

slow but with a kind
of nervous pleasure
feeling her there
her hands and arms

holding you
and Brody up
the other end
flat on his back

looking at the sky
like some thin lily
as you lounged
with his mother

and her piggies near
getting to trust
the water
and the new acquired

skill she'd shown
and you wished Brody
was gone
and you had her

to yourself
all alone.

Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.

You walked from the Downs
having seen the sights
Jane wanted
to show you

the view of the farms
the houses
the sheep wool
caught on wire fences

the church tower
small
like some frail snail
and she talked

of birds and flowers
and having seen
this butterfly
(unknown to you)

and her finger pointing
as it fluttered by
and you took in
her dark hair

her eyes
brown lighter
in sunlight
her pale complexion

the grey dress
white socks
old shoes
(for walking on

rough places
she said)
and she showed you
the hollow tree

and you went inside
and sensed her
near you
the smell of apples

and soap
and you felt the need
to kiss her
but didn't

just let it pass
dream maybe
of having done so
and you listened

to her words
how you wanted
to take each syllable
and hold

and turn it over
like fresh fruit
and squeeze
the meaning from each

and when you reached
the lane you paused
and she smiled
and said

you're quick to learn
yes I guess I am
you said
and you took her

into the cottage
and your mother
was washing clothes
in the big copper

steam coming out
and she standing there
sweat on her forehead
and you introduced her

to Jane and they talked
and you watched
and saw how
thin she was

how small her *******
easing against
the dress cloth
and your mother

nodding her head  
and they smiled
and talked
and you wondered

how the fingers
of your mother's hands
got to be so red
and such

but guessed it must
be the water
and soap suds
and years

of washing clothes
in damp
and that old ringer
she used to have

and how you loved
to see the water squeezed
from it like clear blood
and Jane looked at you

and you wanted
to swim in her dark eyes
and find the essence
of her soul

then she looked away
and deep inside
you wanted her
always to be

and never
to go away.

The rosary slips
between fingers,
pushed by thumb,
prayers said, saying,

praying. The nun
feels cramp in her
thigh, ache of knee.
Bell to ring, light

through crack in
shutters, seeps.
Like that time in
Paris. Young then,

bells from some
church, he saying,
we must visit the
Sacre Coeur. Did,

too, later, their hands
holding, thoughts
of love. That thin
sliver of light through

cracks in that shutter.
He beside her, body
warm, hands folded
between his thighs,

prayer like. Pater
Noster, thumb moves
beads, skin on wood.
And he said, Paris is

built on the bones of
the dead, he looking
straight into her eyes,
dark eyes, pools of

smooth liquid passion.
The bell rings, Matins,
she thumbs away the
last bead, prayers said,

on flight to her God.
Knees ache, thigh crampy,
she rubs to ease. He
rubbed like that, her

thigh, his hands, warm
and slowly. Rubs slowly
now, she and her hand,
to ease. Pain, what is

it for? Questions, answers,
always there. Coinage,
pain, to pay back, debt
for sins, hers, others,

here, in Purgatory. She
ceases to rub, puts rosary
down, lets it hang from
her belt as she walks from

her cell(room) along passage,
down stairs, not to rush, said
Sister Hugh, not to rush.
She holds up the hem so

as not to rub. Into the cloister,
early morning light just
about to come over the
high walls. Chill, touches,

hands, fingers, bend, open,
bend. He showed her this
trick with a coin, his hand
open, the coin there, then

he closed and opened, and
it had gone, vanished, had
mouth open, and he laughed.
Never did show how was

done, have faith, he said
laughing. The cloister, walls
high, church tower, red bricks,
flower garden around below

the walls. Silence. She learnt
that, not easy being a woman,
tongue still, interior silence,
also, Sister Josephine said,

inner silence. Harder to keep,
the inner voice hushed. She
passes the statue of Our Lady,
flowers, prayer papers, pieces,

tucked in crannies, under flower,
vases. Santa Maria audi nos.
He was coming to her, took
her in his arms and kissed her

lips, that cold morning after
the party, Paris, art, music,
it was all there. She enters
the church, puts fingers into

stoup, blessed water, makes
sigh of cross from head to
breast to breast. Sunlight seeps
through glass windows, stone

flag floor, cold, shiny, smooth.
His lips on hers, flesh on flesh,
tongue touching tongue. Long
ago, best forget, let it go. She

sits in her choir stall, takes up
breviary, thumbs through pages.
Prayer pieces of paper, many
requests sent. This one's mother

has cancer, deadly, her prayers
requested for recovery. Not
impossible, faith says so. But
she doubts, always the doubt.

She'll pray, ask, request, ask
God, for supplicants request,
but God knows best. He sees all.
Knows all. Knows me, she

thinks, better than I know myself.
Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said,
and he said it,too. He in his
pyjamas, so ****, uttering the

Descartes, hands open. I think,
there, I am, he said, I am,(naked)
therefore, I think. He laughed.
Other nuns enter, take their place

in choir stalls, sound of sandals
on wood, books being opened,
prayers whispered. Bells ring,
Mother Abbess, enters, all lower

head. Where did he go after
having *** with you? she never
did know, not then, some things
best not known. O Lord open

my lips. Shut down my thoughts.
She makes the sign of the cross.
Finger, *******, from
forehead to breast to breast.

Smells, air, fresh, stale, bodies,
old wood and stone, she standing,
praying, all together, all alone.

Lydia's father said
she could go with you
to Waterloo railway station
mind the roads though

he said(in his
sober moments
he could be quite
considerate)

and not too near
the edge
of the platform
can't have you

falling in front
of a train
so you took a bus
to Waterloo station

both sitting at the rear
of the bus
on the side seats
having paid

the conductor the fare
and sitting there
watching
the passing views

she in her pale
blue dress
her dark straight hair
pale features

thin arms and legs
you thinking
of the steam engines
the power

and the puff of smoke
grey white
and she thinking
of her big sister

coming home
in the early hours
puking in the bog
her mother giving one

hell of a loud scream
of abuse
and her father saying
O give the girl a chance

and Lydia turning over
in the double bed
dreading her sister's
arrival stinking of sick

hanging off
the side of the bed
with a bucket beside
throwing up

what was once inside
the bus arrived
and you got off
and you said

hang on to my hand
we'll cross together
and so she held
your hand

her thin bony fingers
wrapped about yours
her hand cold
thin nails chewed

got to keep an eye
on you
your old man said
you said

and you crossed
running to avoid
the rushing traffic
and once across

she said
that man next to me
on the bus
put his hand

on my thigh quickly
but then we got off
and I didn't know
what to say

she added
you should have told me
you said
she looked anxious

and bit her lip
no matter now
too late
but if you see him again

tell me
and we'll get
the ******
you said

she nodded
and so you walked
into the station
past crowds of people

and porters
pushing trolleys
of luggage or mail
by the tall copper  

with hands behind
his back
and on to the platform
and took a seat together

to watch trains
and hear the sounds
and smell the acrid
smoke and engines

come and leave
sense the overpowering
sounds of released steam
and whistles blown

and flags waved
and passengers
boardings
and disembarking

and you taking
a side view of her
sitting there
anxiety

in the features
of her face
her hair straight
and well brushed

she unaware
you gazed
and took it all in  
and she thinking

of her sister's moans
and occasional vomiting
and she hardly sleeping
and now here

watching trains
you beside her
in your short
sleeved jumper

and cowboy shirt
and jeans
and sniffing in
the smell of smoke

and steam
and listening
to the engines
start up

and sense
the thrill of power
in the huff and puff
and she for once

happy just being there
far from her sister's snores
and her brother's tease
here to be

with you and be
as she please.

Dennis said
that girl you talk to
that one with glasses
and smells of damp

I saw her in the girls' bog
well not in there
but heard more like
after she went in

and she was kind
of crying soft
Benedict listened
as they walked

the playground
(as such it was
a bombed out cellar
of some house

before the War)
why was she crying?
Benedict asked
search me

Dennis said
and kicked a ball
to some kids
over the way

then ran towards them
showing some skill
so Benedict walked up
the steps to the girl's bog

and heard the weeping sound
through the wooden door
what's up Ingrid?
he said softly

she paused
silence came
sniffling
she opened the door

and came out
red eyed behind
her specs
she wiped her nose

and pulled
the door shut
and took him
secretly

to some corner
out of sight
and lifted her
grey skirt

to show a thigh
wounded and bruised
which caught his eye
then she let

the skirt down
and wiped her hands
and blew her nose
he sighed

he knew her father's hand
had made its mark
and curse
she looked at him

her eyes larger
through the glasses
power
and stared anxious

and bit her lip
and wiped her nose
once more  
don't say a word

to anyone
she said in quiet tones
be worse for me
if others know

he sighed again
and made
his humble promise
to keep his word

here
he said
and took a wrapped
toffee from his pocket

and put it
in her ink stained
bony hand
she stared

then slowly
unwrapped it
and placed it
in her mouth

and began to chew
they walked off
and down the steps
to the playground floor

he talked
of the bow and arrow set
he bought
and how like

Robin Hood he looked
and would she be
his Maid Marian
when his game

again began?
she chewed slowly
her eyes settling
to a milder gaze

yes
she said
and could she borrow
his blue steel sword?

he smiled and agreed
and she talked
of her father's wrath
and row and hits

her mother's
blackened eye
and how he hit
she herself

as she hid
behind the door
having no reason why
or what it was for.

Shalom
you said
but Fay's father

ignored you
on the stairs
of the block of flats

you were only trying
to make peace with him
because of Fay

but he wasn't
buying into any Jewism
as he termed it

forgetting that
his Jesus said head
of his Catholic Church

was a Jew himself
but that was
another matter

so you let him go
on his way
up the stairs

humming some
Latin hymn to himself
later seeing Fay

on the way
to the grocer's shop
through the Square

she said her father
had forbidden her
to even talk with you

(the Jew Boy
he had said)
but she knew it was  

impossible even
if she wanted to
which she didn't

despite the risk
she ran in seeing you
or talking with you

I only said shalom to him
you said
she frowned

it means peace
you said
I could have said

something else to him
less friendly
she smiled weakly

best say nothing
she said
o.k

you said
so you walked with her
to the grocer's shop

across the road
and along to the grocer's shop
by the newspaper shop

where they had
The Three Musketeers book
in the window

which you wanted
to buy at sometime
and you showed her

the book and the cover
with a picture
of three musketeers

sword fighting
and you walked on
to the grocers

and she bought
what was on her list
and you got

what your mother
had written
on a small scrap of paper

and afterwards you said
how about a penny drink
at the Penny shop?

and she looked anxious
and said
not sure Dad  said

not to linger around
well don't linger
you said

but have a drink
and we can sit
by the wall outside

and see the world go by
and sip our drinks
she hesitated

but then said
o.k
so you took her

to the Penny shop
and bought two bottles
of penny pop

and sat outside
by the wall
your shopping bags

beside you
the morning sun
blessing your heads

and she talked
of the nuns
at her school

how strict they were
but one she said
was kind

and taught her
the Credo in Latin
word by word

and you sat
listening to her
and she sitting there

momentarily free
like an uncaged
song bird.

Sister Teresa put down the pen. Eyes searched page. White and black. Scribbled words. Meaning there some where amongst the lines, she mused. Bell rang from bell tower. Echoed around cell. Closed her eyes. Held hands together. Sighed a prayer. Allowed the dark and peaceful to swim about her. Out of the depths, O Lord, she whispered. Opened eyes. Parted hands, rested on the table before her palms up, and read the signs. The last echo went out of the room. The whisper of it out of earshot.First-class now this age; first-rate her papa had thought; foremost her mama decided. Gone now Mama, she mused, lifting her body from the chair and walking to the window. Gone except memory. What the little child had seen she wanted to forget. Some memories are best buried. The sky was cold looking; the clouds shroud-like. Held hands beneath habit; clutched hands child-like. Mumbled prayer. Watched nuns move along cloister; watched the slowness; sensed the coldness of the air. If possible, Lord, she murmured, moving from window, walking towards the door. Paused. Looked back. Stared at crucifix on wall. The Crucified agonised, battered by age and time. Smiled. Nodded. Turned and opened the door and walked into the passageway. Closed the door with gentle click; hid hands beneath the cloth; lowered eyes to floor’s depth. Wandered down by wall’s side. Listened. Sighed. Sensed day’s hours; day’s passage and dark and light. Entered cloister and felt the chill wind bite and snap. Best part, Papa had said. Men are not to be trusted, said he many a time. Felt the cloister wall’s roughness with her right hand. Sensed the rough brick; sensed the tearing of the flesh on wall of brick; the nails of Christ. Mama had died her own crucifixion. The child closed the door having seen in the half-dark, she recalled, closing her eyes, feeling the chill wind on her cheek. Paused. Breathed deep. Saw sky’s pale splendour; saw light against cloister’s wall; saw in the half-light. Nun passed behind. Sister Helen, big of bone, cold of eyes, cool of spirit. Cried once; cried against night’s temper. Months on months moved on; days on days succeeded. Papa had said, the zenith of the passing years, my dear child, your mama’s love. How pain can crucify, she thought as she moved on and along the cloister, lifting eyes to church door. Nails hammered home to breast and ribs, she murmured as she entered the church. Fingers found stoup and tip ends touched cold water; blessed is He, she sighed. Eyes searched church. Scanned pew on pew; nun on nun. Sister Bede nodded; held hands close; lifted eyes that smiled. Where Jude had been buried, Papa had not said. Ten years passed; time almost circle-like, she mused, pacing slow down aisle to the choir stall. Sister Bede lowered her head; lowered her black habited body. Saw once as a child but closed the door. Poor Mama. Who is she that came and went? Long ago. Time on time. Papa had missed her; tears and tears; sobs in the mid of night. Mother Abbess knocked wood on wood. Silence. Closed eyes. Dark passages lead no where, Papa said. Chant began and echoed; rose up and down; lifted and lowered like a huge wave of loss and grief. Where are you? What grief is this? Night on night, her papa’s voice was heard; echoed her bedroom walls; her ears closed to it all except the sobs. De profundis. Out of the depths. Dark and death are similar to man and child. Opened eyes to page and Latin text. Bede and she, to what end? Death, dark, and Mama’s fears echoed through the rooms of the house; vibrated in the child’s ears; bit the child’s heart and head. This is the high point Jude had said; had kissed her once; had held her close and she felt and sensed. Men are not to be trusted. Breathed deep. For thine is the kingdom. And Papa’s words were black on white and pained her. Jude gone and buried; mama crucified; Sister Rose fled the walls; wed and wasted to night’s worst. Come, my Christ, she murmured through chant and prayer; come lift me from my depths; raise me up on the last day. Voice on voice; hand on heart; night on night. Jude had said be prepared for the next meeting, but dead now; Passchendaele claimed him. Voice on voice, Amen. Chill in bone and flesh. Breath eased out like knife from wound. Bede looked and smiled; hid the hands; bit the lip. Men are not to be trusted. Jude long gone. Nuns departed. Bede turned and went with her gentle nod. Paused. Sighed. Come, my Lord and raise me up, she mused, stepping back from stall and the tabernacle of Christ. Raise me up. Raise your lonely bride from death and dark.

She saw the kids on the slide,
each with their own
burden to bear:
burn scars,

post operative
patients,
cancer victims
counting the last days

on their thin fingers,
a kid with an eye gone,
lid sewn.  
And she, Anne,

amputee, bad
tempered *****,
12 year old,
big bosomed,

fine of remaining limb,
scanning the rest,
seated
in the wheel chair,

Skinny Kid behind,
hands on the handles,
warm breath
on her neck.

She was bored,
sun too bright,
kids too noisy,
nurse ****-arsing

near by,
taking temperatures,
changing wound
bandages, crouched

to see eye to eye,
thighs showing
stocking tops.
Hey, Kid,

she said,
get a peek at that,
indicating the thighs
and stocking tops

on view.
The Kid, thin arms
and legs, short hair,
11 year old, stared,

took in stocking legs,
black, warming,
looked away.
Don't get to see

that every day,
Kid, unless
you're their old man
or fond lover,

Anne said,
grinning ear to ear.
Skinny Kid,
stood, loyal,

whispered into
her neck,
want me to push you
to the beach?

sure, Kid,
get me
from these wounded ones,
these dying doomed,

let me smell
the salt and sea,
let me hear
the sea's song.

So the Kid, pushed
the chair, arms
out stretched,
over lawn,

down path,
she singing,
rude lyrics,  
her one remaining leg

rocking
to the chairs' move,
the stump, showing
where her skirt ended,

shook and rocked.  
Out the back gate,
onto the path
by the beach,

out of the nurse's sight,
or sound of voice's reach.
She thinking
of the Kid's

loyal touch,
his heaving her
from chair to bed,
the night before,

his thin arms
clutching tight
in case she fell,
the warm bed

embracing,
holding her down,
he standing there,
gazing at her

bare stump
with that innocent
stare.
He thinking,

as he pushed along,
how red
her stump was
the night before,

how the thigh
of her other leg
was white as snow
compared,

going red
as he stared.

Let me take you out to lunch
Mrs Bryce said
(she was a middle aged dame
old enough to be his aunt)

o.k if you like
he said
but her friend Lilly
didn't like the idea

(some jealousy
of the lesbian kind
maybe he later thought)
and was quite reserved

as they went to
the posh upstairs restaurant
he one side
and they opposite

Lilly giving him
the cool stare
her pinched mouth
wrinkled forehead

Mrs Bryce studied
the menu
her glasses on
her eyes focused

what you having Lilly?
she asked
and Lilly scanned
her menu and picked out

something in French
and then she asked him
and he said
o the stew will do

and the waitress came
and took their orders
and went off
wagging her behind

which he noticed
but they didn't
being that part
sexually blind

and then came
the small talk
the casual chat
or this and that

and Lilly straight faced
thin lipped
and icy eyes stare
but he knew

what Lilly didn't
she had no idea
about the ***
or how the middle aged

dame had it still
could still turn on the fire
could **** off his desire
but Mrs Bryce

never said a word
not a hint
she wore her middle age
and middle class morals

very well
a mask of gentility
or cultured good humour
good manners on show

but he knew
she was hot
and could go
(her husband

some middle aged guy
with sourness
and boredness
in each greying eye)

and she sat there
giving it the small talk
sipping the wine
one finger raised

her eyes pure
as cut glass
behind the specs
and Lilly listened

in soft admiration
wanting to be nearer
breathing in
Mrs Bryce's scent

dreaming of the two of them
doing whatever in
some bedroom spent
but he had the real

not a dream
and as he watched
Mrs Bryce sipping
her wine

thin lips
on thin glass
he remembered her
that time lying there

bright eyes
greying but dyed hair
he bringing her
to a seventh heaven

of yes and yes
and more
and Lilly sour faced
sitting and listening

to the small talk
but wanting
something other
for sure.

Once school was done
and after your tea
of beans on toast
you went with Janice

to the narrow passages
behind the ABC cinema
evening creeping in
she next to you

getting the jitters
street lights
here and there
casting shadows

making pretend giants
and you'd pick up
dog-ends
from the ground

and put them
in your pocket
what do you want
them for?

she asked
make myself
a cigarette later
you said

cigarette?
she said disapprovingly
you mustn't
that's horrible

and those
left over cigarette butts
have got
people's spit in them

but they make
good cigarettes
you said
her face grimaced

you took in
her red beret
to the side
of her fair hair

her blue eyes
on fire
if I did that
Gran'd spank me

well and truly
Janice said
trick is
not to be caught

you said
a rat ran by
and she screamed
a rat ran by

my foot
she stepped back
and grabbed your arm
yes you get them here

at this time
of an evening
you said
I shouldn't be here

she said quietly
Gran thinks
I'm in the park
well as far she knows

you still are
you said
but that's lying
she said

no it is being
careful with the truth
you said
you walked along

the passageway
and came out
on to the New Kent Road
and at the front

of the cinema
with its big billboards
and little photos
of the film being shown

and what was
to be shown
you peered
at the photographs

Janice beside you
how about
I bring you here
on Saturday?

you said
she peered
at the photographs
then at you

it's a cowboy film
she said
yes and its got
good gunfights in it

and I can practice
how they do it
she frowned
not sure

if Gran'd let me
she said
say you're with me
and she will

you said
she didn't look
convinced
bit her lip

treat you
to an ice cream too
you said
how much will it cost?

she asked
1/-3d
you said
but don't worry

my old man will pay
he usually does
she bit her lip
a little more

have to ask Gran
she said
ok
you said

then you walked
along the road
past some shops
then stopped

at the fish and chips shop
smell that
you said and sniffed
she sniffed

isn't that good
you said
she sniffed again
smells of vinegar

she said
and fish and chips
you said
she looked at you

her blue eyes
lit up
by the light
from the shop

want some chips?
you asked
I've no money
she said

I've got 6d
that'll get us
a bag to share
she nodded

so you both
went into the shop
and the warmth
and the smell

and the noise
from some radio
blasting out
a Bill Haley song

and ordered a 6d
bag of chips
and added
salt and vinegar

and walked out
and across the road
and down Meadow Row
the moonlight bright

lighting up
the beginning of night.

Having washed her doll
Battered Betty in the baby
bath, Helen dries it in an
old towel her mother gave

her, rubbing it with her
childish motherly attention
to detail. That done, she
dresses Betty in some doll's

clothes her father brought
home from a  junk shop
on his way home one Friday.
She wraps Betty in a fading

shawl, and goes to the front
door. Where you off to? her
mother asks. Taking Betty
out for a walk, she replies.

Where abouts? probably
to Jail Park, Helen says.
Watch out for strange men,
her mother says. I'm with

Benedict, Helen says. O,
well that's OK then, her
mother says, relieved,
pushing damp hair from

her lined forehead. Helen
goes out the front door
and walks along to the
railway bridge next to the

Duke of Wellington pub
where Benedict said to
met him. She pats the doll's
back as she walks, tightens

the shawl to keep the doll
warm. Benedict is waiting
by the pub wall; his cowboy
hat is pushed back, 6 shooter

gun is tucked in the belt
of his short trousers. Helen
sees him before he sees her,
she prepares herself: licks

fingers to dampen down her
hair, straightens her thick
lens spectacles, wipes her
nose on the back of her hand.

Am I late? she says as she
approaches him. He pushes
himself from the wall, his 6
shooter quickly out of the belt,

he blows the end. No, he says,
just thinking of the Billy-the-Kid
I saw at the cinema the other day.
Got shot. Died. I wouldn’t have

done that, I'd not have turned my
back on the marshal whatever
his name was. Helen rocks Betty
in her small arms. Given Betty

a bath, she says, nice and clean now.  
Benedict gives the doll a glance,
puts his gun away in the belt.
Good, he says, can't have our

kid *****. Helen smiles, no, we
can't, can we, she says. Mum
says to look out for strange men,
she adds as an after thought.

Benedict pats his gun, no strange
man will get to you or Betty,
he says determinedly. Just as
Mum says, Helen says quietly,

looking at the cowboy beside
her, his hat now pushed forward,
his hazel eyes focusing, on her
and the doll. Let's go walk, he

says, I'll give you and Betty
a push on the swings and
roundabout. So they walk up
Bath Terrace, she telling him

about a boy at school calling
her four eyes, and he musing
of putting a couple of slugs in
the kid's head: BANG BANG,

the caps will go, just smoke,
no holes, no death, or if he chose,
maybe a good sock in the nose.

Lizbeth's hand
is on the metal ring handle
to the church door.
The hand twists.

Hard to move,
jerks, pushes.
The door gives
and they are in.

Smell of oldness
and damp.
He closes the door
behind them, his

hand giving gentle push.
It clicks, holds firm.
Small and old,
the walls a fading white.

Old beams, pews,
altar table clothed
in white a cloth.
She looks around,

eyes scanning,
hands by her side,
fingers of one hand
holding her blue dress.

He follows, footsteps
after hers, scans her
before him, the walls,
the old wood pews.

They stop and turn
and look back
at the smallness
of the church.

Here will do,
she says,
pointing to a pew.
He shakes his head,

we can't, not here,
people may come.
No one comes here,
except on the monthly

Sunday or the odd
visitor or tourist.
He scans the pew,
old wood, wood knots.

Who's to know?
She asks. He walks
down the aisle
touching pew tops.

She watches him,
his reluctance,
his hesitation.
Some boys would

jump at the chance,
she says. But not
here, he says, turning
to face her, not in

a church, on a pew.
Some might, she says,
running a hand
over the pew top.

They had parked
their cycles outside,
at the back
of the church wall.

The sun shines through
the glass windows.
What if someone
comes and finds us?

She smiles. Moves
towards him.
Touches his face.
Imagine their faces,

she says. No, I can't,
he says, not here.
He stares at her,
her smile, her eyes

focusing on him,
her red hair loose,
about her shoulders,
her blue dress,

knee length,
white ankle socks,
brown sandals.
We're only 13,

he says, shouldn't
even be thinking
of such things,
let alone doing them.

His body language
tells the same.
She gazes at him,
his short hair,

his eyes wide
with anxiety,
his grey shirt,
jeans, old shoes.

We'd always
remember it,
she says, here
on a pew, me

and you, this
small church.
We could come back
years later

and view
our love scene.
No, he says,
not here, not

anywhere.
He looks at
the walls,
the roof,

the pews,
the altar table,
white cloth,
brass crucifix.

She sighs, looks
at the pew,
imagines the place,
the area of pew.

He and she.
But it is just
imagination,
mere thought,

she has not so far,
nor he, just an
impulse on her part,
an urge, a hot

compulsion to
experience,
experiment.
Let's go, he says.

Wait, she says,
let's just sit
in the pew,
just sit.

He studies her,
her eyes lowered,
her smile gone.
Ok, he says,

and they enter
a pew and sit.
The sunlight
warms them.

He looks at
the high windows,
at sunlight.
She sits and looks

at the brass crucifix,
the distorted Christ,
the head to one side.
She wonders how

they would have done it,
he and she, here,
on this pew.
She is unfocused.

She feels the sun
on her. Blessed,
she thinks, maybe.
He feels a sense

of gain and loss.
He has stepped
to an edge,
stepped back,

gazed into
a dark abyss.
She turns to him,
leans to him,

thank you,
she says.
They close eyes,
lips kiss.