He met Lydia
in Harper Road
near the newspaper shop
the one that had

the Rob Roy book
in the window
which he was planning to buy
with his pocket money

she looked unhappy
carrying a shopping bag
in her thin hand
where you off to?

Benedict asked
got to go home
with this
she said

lifting the bag
where you going?
she asked
seeing him carrying

his toy rifle
and wearing
his cowboy hat
going to fight

at the O.K. Corral
only it won't be
ok when I get there
he said smiling

O.K. Corral?
she said
where's that?
he pointed to a bomb site

across the road
near the doctor's surgery
oh
she said

who else is there?
a couple of other kids
he said
why don't you come along?

can't
got to take
this shopping home
and besides Mum's

in a state
what with my big sister
not coming home
until the early hours

and my dad having a row
and punch up
in the Square last night
with that man

on the 2nd balcony
can't remember his name
and Mum and him
having a row

and me trying to sleep
and Hemmy
my brother
putting an earwig

in my bed
making me scream
and Mum bellowing at me
for screaming

she stopped
and wiped her eyes
on the hem of her dress
Benedict put his arm

around her thin shoulders
I'll get your brother
for that the ***
he said

she said nothing
but sniffed
he took
the shopping bag

from her hand
and said
I'll walk you home
and after

we can come back
and have a penny drink
and lolly
in the Penny shop

what about the O.K.Corral fight?
she said
o that can wait
he said

they'll fight
amongst themselves
anyway
she nodded

and they walked back
and crossed
Rockingham Street
and into the Square

and he said
what does your sister do
until the early hours?
God knows

Lydia said
Mum says she's a *******
or something
I don't know

if it's a special
sort of job
or something
but it makes Mum annoyed

and Dad said
to leave her alone
as she's doing her bit
to keep ***** men occupied  

Benedict shrugged his shoulders
and hugged Lydia closer
so how about
that penny drink and lolly?

she nodded and sniffed  
and I forgot to tell you
Benedict said
I saw this

Daniel Boone film
the other day
up in Camberwell Green
in some flea pit

of a cinema
but it was good
and he had a rifle
but older looking

than mine
she sniffed
but looked at him
sideways

a weak smile
on her face
you should have come
he said

maybe next time I will
she said sadly
sure you will
he said

and they reached
her flat door
and she said
thank you

and he gave her
back the shopping bag
and she kissed his cheek
and went in

and he looked around  
to make sure
none of the boys about
had seen the kiss

as he had
a reputation to maintain
and kissing
or being kissed

by a girl
was maybe deemed
as a bit cissy
but none had

and he walked over
to the pram sheds
and sat on the roof
until maybe

she reappeared
happier not less so
as he thought
and feared.

The bell from the cloister rang. Echoed around and settled upon nun in bed cosy in blanket against morning’s cold and frost. Stirred. Head raised. Eyes peered into the dawn’s light, sighed, shivered, moved arms against body’s length. Closed eyes. Wished for more sleep. None to have. Bell rang. Time, ladies, please. Time and tide. Stirred again. Lifted head. Sighed. Gazed at bedside table. Clock tick tock, tick tock. Moved to edge of the bed. Feet dangled. Toes wiggled. Hands joined for prayer. Breath stilled. Silence of the room. Bell stopped. Sighed. Breathed air, cold air. Wake up, rise, and shine. Funny words. Tired still. Wished to sleep, but no time. Dangled feet rose and fell. Toes wriggled. Rose from bed and knelt on wooden floor. Hard floor. Cold floor. Polished to a shine floor. Knees slid on smooth surface. Back stiff from straw-stuffed bedding. Sighed. Sister Teresa joined hands. Let fingers touch. Let flesh touch flesh. Sin on sin once maybe. Long ago. Sighed. Opened eyes. Gazed at crucifix on wall above bed. Old Christ, battered by time and grime. Eyes closed image held in mind’s eye. Prayer began. Words searched for amongst the wordless zones. Reaching through darkness for an inch of light. Light upon light. Darkness upon darkness. Who felt this she does not know. None speak except Sister John. Word upon word built. Holy upon holy. Sit here, she’d say. Rest a while. Rest in cloister. Rest on bench by cloister wall. You and she. Her hands old and wrinkled by time and age. Her eyes glassy. Her voice thin and worn, yet warm. Want to be close to warm. Especially in dark cold mornings like this, Teresa mused, lifting head and opening eyes to dawn’s light and cold’s chill in bone and skin. She stood and dressed. Disrobed from nightgown and into habit. Black as death with white wimple of innocence. Laughed softly. Such times. Such times. Harsh serge against soft flesh. Stiff whiteness on skin’s paleness. Sighed. Coughed. Made sign of cross from head to breast to breast. Never to touch, mama said, never let be touched. Words, long ago. Mama is dead. Rest in peace. No mirror. No image of seventeen-year old face or features now. Vanity of vanities. Sighed. Papa said, some men would deceive. Deceived by what? She often asked but none would tell. Ding **** bell. Silence now. Go now. Moved to door and down the cloister to the church and the dawn’s welcome cold and still. Teresa closed door and walked at pace soft and motionless seeming. None shall speak. Sing and chant and raise eyes and maybe a smile briefly, but none shall speak. Nor touch. For none may touch. Not as much as a sleeve felt or breath sensed. Each one an island. Water upon water none shall cross. Teresa sighed. Walked down the steps one by one, not to rush but not to lag sloth-like, lazily or drag wearily. Mother Abbess would know.Knows all. Sensed all. Next to God most feared. Most loved maybe if truth were known. Teresa sighed. Chill of cloister ate at bones and flesh. Nimble walking might ease, but walk as nuns do and cold bites like violent fish. Breathed in the air. The moon still out. Stuck out on a corner bright and white. The sun’s colour fed the dawn’s light. Brightness promised. Warmer weather. Warmer than Sister John. Who knows, Teresa mused, touching the cloister wall for sense of touch. Absence of touch can mean so much, Jude said, years before. Jude’s image faded now. No longer haunting as before. Teresa brushed her finger on the cloister wall. Rough and smooth. Rough and smooth. Men may deceive, papa said. Let none touch, mama advised. Long ago or seeming so. Seventeen-years old and innocent as innocence allowed. Jude laughed, feeling such. Wanting to touch. Over much. Entered church. Cool air. Sense of aloneness. Choir stalls. Smell of incense and polish mixed. Sense upon sense. Smell upon smell. Walked slowly. Genuflected to Christ. High on high. All seeing. Like Mother abbess. But less human. Less human all too human. The Crucified for all to see. Half naked there. Stretched wide arms. Head dangling lifeless or so seeming. Genuflection over moved to place in choir stall, stood, and stared at vacant wall. Brick upon brick. Sounds held. Chants upon chants sang once, held here. Chill in bone and flesh. Breviary held. Pages turned. Find the place and mark it well. Bell pulled sounds now. Nuns enter and gather round. Sister upon sister, elbow near elbow, but none may touch. None touch. None touch.Sister Rose eyes dim searched yours for morning joy. Smiled. Coughed. Awaited tap from Abbess. Smiled. Nodded. Hands held beneath black serge. Wanting to hold something, someone, but none may do so. None may touch. Tap, tap, wood on wood. Chant came as if from the cold air settled on ears. Felt in breast. Sensed and blessed, but none may touch. The sense to sing. The voice raised. The ear tuned. The mouth and lips employed, but none may touch. At least, said Sister Rose, not over much. Not over much. Still air. Cold air. Warmth wanted. Sister John or Sister Rose. None shall touch.

Yehudit likes
the Mahler 6th
Naaman has given her

but says he ought not
to spend
his money on her

he likes her
he thinks of her
all the time

even when he's away
from her
and she's at home

or abroad
like that first time
when she went Belgium  

and sent him
a postcard
of a Russian artist's

artwork
and he pinned it
to his bed board

along with the photo
of her she'd given him
and he likes

how her fair hair
flows as she walks
the mild wind

taking it
and her eyes
icy blue

like small pools
and he wants
to swim there

and sink in deeper
to find her soul
(sentimental fool

he later thought)
and she has the small
but most delicate

******* he's seen
and held them
and kissed them

that time
at her house
when her parents

were out
after she'd played
some Mozart minuet

on the piano
and he'd almost got
into her *******

when the parents' car
came into the drive
and they had

to sort out
their clothes
and he carried away

the softness
of the *******
I prefer his 2nd symphony

she says
but I'll like the 6th too
and she tucks it

under her arm
as she walks with him
along the country lane

the moon out
and the stars spread
about the sky

and the parents are in
and he is out
the evening cool

the hedgerows
becoming dark shadows
and he smelling

her scent
and nearby
an owl hoots

and a bird
takes flight
and he walking

next to her
in an August night.

Baruch likes
Marvel's wife
he likes being

with her
likes her near
Marvel said

come over
come play chess
have a few drinks

a smoke or so
and so he has
and Marvel's wife is there

and she's got the drinks
and made up
some sandwiches

and sits nearby
watching the TV
and he sees her there

wearing the red dress
her dark hair
and when she walks

across the room
he catches sight
of her swaying ***

the tightness of the dress
where it holds
and he looks

half knowingly
so as not
to arouse Marvel's

suspicions
but little
does Marvel know

that Baruch has seen her
when he was out
on his job

little did he know
his wife has brought
Baruch in

got him a drink
and relaxed him
on the white sofa

shut the mutt
in the other room
and said

how do you like your drink?
and he said
cool

and so she got him
a cool drink
and swayed back to him  

leaning down towards him
easing down
her fine *******

towards him
and that time
when she was

all over him
kissing his neck
coming on strong

and the sofa
where Marvel's wife
sits now

has been a place
of serious love making
but Marvel thinks only

of the next chess move
his stubby fingers
moving his piece

thinking of checkmate
not seeing Baruch's eyes
on his wife

as she sits
on the white sofa
and Baruch takes in

her knees
the legs crossing over
Marvel smoking

his cigarette
smiling as he moves
his bishop

his eyes on the board
and his wife sitting there
behind his back

on the sofa
lying back
pointing to Baruch

her lonely cleavage
and he smiling
one eye

on the board
and on his queen
and the other eye

seeking an opening
in her dress
some visual

to take home
some dream piece
to take to bed

and turn around
and around
inside his head.

During the half term break
from school
Janice said
come see my new canary

Gran bought it for me
and so you went with her
through the Square
and across Bath Terrace

and into the block of flats
where she lived
with her gran and bird
and she was excited

and talked and talked
of the new canary
what do you call him?
you asked

Yellow
she said
because its yellow
and the name fits

and when you got
to her flat
her gran opened the door
and Janice said

I've brought Benedict
to see the new bird
her gran said
ok

and let you in
and Janice took you
into the sitting room
and there in a bird cage

was the new bird
sitting there
on a perch
making whistling noises

some say they talk
if you teach them
Janice said
and I'm going to teach it

to say things
and won't that be good?
providing you don't
teach it silly things

her gran said
my cousin had one
and he taught it
all kinds of bad words

which made
his mother mad
what kind of words?
Janice asked

never you mind
what words
her gran said
if I catch you teaching

this bird bad words
I'll tan your backside
I won't Gran
Janice said

just teach it
sensible words
well mind you do
her gran said

now how about
some lemonade and cake?
yes please
you both said

and her gran went off
to get the lemonade
and cake
and Janice put

her finger
through the bars
of the cage
and talked to the bird

but the bird
shuffled away from her
on the perch
and was quiet

still she talked to it
and but her finger in
as far as she could
but it just walked as

far from her
as it could go
staring at her
with it stark eyes

not very friendly is it?
you said
maybe it doesn't like
your red beret

maybe red frightens it?
so she took off
her red beret
and the bird came closer

and began chirping away
and it kind of pecked
at her finger
not roughly

but inquisitively
as if to find out
what it was
then it shuffled off again

and then went
and pecked at some
food from a feeder
at the side

of the cage
maybe I could get it out
sometime
and let it sit

on my finger
like I've seen done
on TV
Janice said

what if it flies away?
you asked
I'll keep the door
and windows closed

she said
and she opened
the cage door
and put her hand in

to get the bird
but the bird
moved away from her
and flapped its wings

what are you doing?
her gran said
entering the room
Janice took her hand out

of the cage
and shut the door
just wanted to let it
sit on my finger

Janice said
her gran put the tray
with lemonade
and pieces of cake

on the table
and came over
to the bird cage
you might have frightened it

then it might die
she peered in
at the canary
which was perched there

staring back at her
now don't you
do that again
do you hear?

yes Gran
Janice said sheepishly
her eyes lowered
nice bird

you said
maybe it's shy
at the moment
I guess after

a little while
it'll get friendly
do you think so?
Janice said

sure it will
you replied
her gran smiled
and walked off

back to the kitchen again
and you and Janice
ate the cake
and drank the lemonade

and you both watched
the canary as it chirped
and walked
along the perch

and there
on the side chair
was Janice's red beret
and she asked

what words
do I teach?
but you said
I couldn't say.

She crosses fields to find him,
passing cows, over low fences,
along dust tracks. He's probably
at the farm, his mother said, he

works there after school some
days and at week ends if he has
time to spare, so she goes there,
her bike parked by the cottage

wall, on foot, treading her way,
warm morning, Saturday. He
sees her coming through the farm,
dressed in jeans, blouse and boots,

her red hair tied in a bunch, hands
in her pockets, mouth chewing gum.
Farm hands view her a she passes,
their eyes feeding on her swaying

behind, her tiny ****, not knowing
13 years had scarcely gone, then
turn away, back to their work of
milking cows or weighing milk

or cleaning cow sheds of **** and
straw. Your mother said I'd find
you here, Lizbeth says, eyeing
him, his face and eyes and the

way he stands. He views her,
sensing her non-countryside ways,
a towny, others'd say. Just doing
a bit, he says, got hay bales to

stack, tidy and lay. Can I help?
she says, I’ve nothing much to do?
If you like, he says, and walks
along to the barn and she follows,

swaying her hips, holding her
head to one side. He shows her
the hay bales, where they need
to be and how to stack. It smells

in here, she says, heat of hay,
he says, gets stuffy. She runs a hand
over the nearest bales. Soft enough,
she says, looking at him, her eyes

focusing, sniffing the air. Soft enough
for what? He says. To lay on, cuddle
on, she say softly. Best not, he says,
others may come. Not up there, she

says, pointing to a higher place above
their heads, there we'd not been seen.
Best not, he says, they want me for
work not to laze or shirk. She pouts

her lips, walks about the barn, touching
with her fingers, running palms over
the bales. Just a little while, she says,
unbuttoning her blouse, needn't be long,

fingers slowly working the buttons.
There's mice and rats about, he says,
could be anywhere in here. She pauses,
her fingers still, her eyes enlarging.

Here? she asks. He nods, seen them
about, a few hours ago. She buttons
up her blouse, gazing around. Shame,
she says, wanted to, you know, here

in the quiet, us alone. He stands and
gazes, takes in her slim frame, her eyes,
her hands holding each other and
squeezing. Another time maybe, she

says, some other place, somewhere
that's quiet, where we'd not be disturbed.
He nods, viewing her small *******
tidied away, at least for the day, like

small babes put to bed, and tucked
up safe and sound. She kisses his cheek,
touches his arm, see you, she says softly,
see you around, and she walks way,

her swaying behind, tight in her jeans,
walking through dust and hay, see you,
she says, blowing a kiss, another day.

The soft machine is my body, said Sonia, it gives pleasure to men. I sit in my bath, rinse away the touch and feel of them, while in the other room Dimello lies upon my bed, gazing up at the ceiling, smoking his fat cigar, singing between puffs some song he thinks I like, some verses he’s remembered from some former times. Mi máquina suave, he calls me, his soft machine, supple, malleable machine. He knows little of me; his mind is of lower things, of orifices and *******, of *****, drugs and ***** deeds. He knows nothing of my needs, my little wants and desires. I lay back in my bath, let the water soothe me, my ******* sit upon the water’s skin like dolphins about to skim the waves, but these just sit and wait, two small whales, my fingers touching them as if some lover had felt and loved. Sometimes I embrace this soft machine, my hands around me as if some secret lover held me close, or I kiss my arms with my soft lips, mocking Dimello with his damp thick lips, his ***** breath in my ears, his words like pinpricks on my flesh. Besaré la máquina suave, he says, I will kiss the soft machine, he repeats, his smile oily, his eyes dark as prunes. Last night he made love to me, his body like some pounding shark, his teeth nibbling my flesh, his fingers entering, feeling their way in the dark, his coarse voice mumbling his words of lust and love. My uncle loved this soft machine, he would tickle and touch in the summer days when I stayed for the holidays when my parents were away on their business trips abroad in other climes in my childhood times. Nuestro secreto, Uncle said, our secret, none must know, he would whisper, his hands seeking  smooth my flesh, to soothe my troubled mind and me. The water in my bath grows cold; I hear Dimello singing from the other room, his head on my pillow, his cigar smoke invading my space. I arise from my bath; look at my soft machine, my body, with its suppleness, its litheness, its agility. I know each inch of this machine, feel it with my finger’s touch, hold it in embrace, kiss it with a self-love, a tenderness lacking in other’s touch. Dimello calls, his patience lacking, his lust returned. Apresure mi máquina suave, he calls, hurry, my soft machine, my body awaits your return, he says. I want him gone, want his body from my bed and home. He does not love as I wish to be loved, his love is of a lower kind, his wants and lusts feel me with dread. I look out of the window and see the morning sun, see the day coming with its freshness blooming, the birds singing from some nearby trees, and Dimello singing like some strangled cat, his voice echoing through the walls of my one roomed flat and lowering my lips I blow a kiss to the birds in flight trying to forget Dimello and his lustful night.

It's snowing out,
Christine says,
peering through
the glass

of the window
in the locked ward.
You stand beside her,
staring at the falling flakes,

surreal, chilly, white.
I want to be out in it
like a child, she says,
not stuck in here

like some prisoner.
You can smell her scent,
near by, entering into you,
distracting you. She

presses her palms
against the glass,
breathes on it,
steams it to a small

area of invisibility.
There's a tractor out
in that field, she says,
see it? Yes, you say,

sensing her closeness,
her arm touching yours,
elbow touching elbow.
And those birds look

at them, gulls, rooks,
feeding on the churned
over ground and the snow.
You wonder why

the **** who left her
at the altar could do
such a thing, why he got
that far and then left her

there in her white dress
and flowers and a church
full of people waiting
and then not show and she,

now, stuck in here full of stress
and with a fragile mind.
I want to go out in the snow,
she says, but the nurse

ignores her, walks by,
goes on about some other
business. Why can't we
go out in the snow? she

says to you. Maybe they
think we're going to run off,
you say, watching the tractor's
slow drive, the birds flocking

behind on the ground.
She sighs, puts her hands
down from the glass, holds
them in each other, could do

with a ******* cigarette.
Hey, nurse, got a cigarette?  
Need a smoke, she says.
I got a smoke, you say,

I'll go get them. So you go
to the side room, where
the men are, and bring
your packet of cigarettes

and plastic lighter, and give
her one and light it for her
and light one for yourself,
and she inhales so deep

that she seems to stop
breathing and then exhales
up in the air, holding the
cigarette between her slim

fingers, her hand just so.
And you stand there by
the window watching the
tractor again and the falling

snow, and she's there again,
peering, smoking, sighing.
I'd not have left you at the altar,
you say, I'd not have done

it to you. She says nothing,
the smoke hitting the glass
and flowing inward again,
she gazes out, the tree tops

blanketed in whiteness,
birds in flight, you sense her,
smell her, imagine her.
I wonder who he's *******

now? she whispers, easing
out smoke, the snow falling,
the tractor pausing, then turning
back up the field, birds following.

She inhales again, looks away,
walks back into the main ward,
her fine *** having that sway,
her white night gown like some

dowdy wedding dress, holding
tightly to her, her figure shown,
the outline of her ******* showing,
blue against white. You turn and

watch the snow fall, the tractor
drive, birds in tow, your mind
blank now, white, cold as snow.

O'Brien said
the whole girl thing
was a falsity
why waste your time

on them?
he'd told Baruch
yes why?
Sutcliffe said

in an echo
as they walked home
from school
along

the New Kent Road
holding a cigarette
to one side
a thin line

of smoke
coming
from his mouth
as she spoke

Baruch said nothing
about Fay
he just listened
thinking of her

as they walked along
his hands
in his pockets
his scuffed shoes

treading the pavement
his eyes looking
at Sutcliffe
at his blonde hair

and bright blue eyes
and O'Brien
with his shock
of brown hair

and his crafty eyes
I've yet to meet a girl
worth losing sleep over
he said

not a wink of sleep
Sutcliffe added
Baruch had seen Fay
the day before

on the way home
by the church
on the corner
of Meadow Row

she in her catholic
school uniform
clutching her satchel
her bright eyes on him

her fair hair
brightened
by the afternoon sun
how they had walked together

up the Row
she talking of the nuns
at the school
about the whole Latin thing

about the long list
of saints she had
to remember
he took in

her anxiety
her paleness of skin
he told her
of the pottery teacher

who ridiculed his pots
and how he did it
in front of the class
holding up the ***

and running it down
not that I care a toss
Benedict said
least not

about the ***
and they crossed
Rockingham Street
and up the *****

and there they waited
gazing at each other
the silence
like thin silk

he wanted to kiss her
but not doing so
she wondered
if she could get

nearer to him
maybe much closer
but feared her father
might hear of it

and he didn't like Baruch
didn't like the Jew boy
keep yourself free
of them

O'Brien said
girls cling to you
like leeches
and ****

the being
out of you
with their petty wants
yes wants and wants

Sutcliffe echoed
Baruch paused
by the hairdresser shop
by the crossing

opposite Meadow Row
best get home
Baruch said
yes me too

said Sutcliffe
hope my cousin's gone home
she's been with us
for weeks now

and always
in the bathroom
and wandering the house
in her almost

see through night dress
sure sure
O'Brien said
bet you hate that

and he laughed
and Sutcliffe walked off
home the cigarette
behind his back

held
in his inky fingers
see you around
O'Brien said

and wandered on
up the road
and Baruch
saw him off

and crossed the road
and walked down
Meadow Row
thinking of Fay

and that moment
he almost kiss her
how they stood
gazing at each other

he gazing
at her fine beauty
her figure  
and she fearing

her father
would know
and the nuns
at the school

always writing to him
about her
and what she does
and does not

and she seeing
Baruch there
feeling her heart beat
and sensed feeling hot.

Lizbeth cycled in from the town
and set her bike
against a fence
and asked your mother

where you were
out somewhere
your mother told her
bird watching

or digging up old bones
in the woods
oh ok
Lizbeth said

and walked back out
on the dusty road
and walked down
the small lane

by the cottages
birds calling
mostly rooks
high up

in the trees
or the flutter of wings
as birds flew
from hedgerows

at her approach
she trod carefully
between the cow pats
on the lane down

her black Wellingtons
touching the hem
of her black skirt
the green top

short sleeved
showing
her thin arms
a steam ran slowly

on her right
over pebbles
and stones
and weeds

and then she saw you
by a tree
looking up
through binoculars

unaware
of her approach
didn't know
you bird watched

she said
breaking
into your world
of birds and nature

with her words
you gazed at her
her red hair
drawn tightly

into a ponytail
at the back
of her head
her freckled skin

the greeny eyes
not much else
to do
you said

us London boys
have a lot to learn
in this
off the beaten track

of a place
she nodded
and stared
her eyes focusing in

at the bird book
in your hand
and binoculars
around your neck

what's London like?
she asked
like Dante's Inferno
you replied

whose?
she said
who the heck is he
when he's at home?

you walked towards her
tucking the bird book
in the back pocket
of your jeans

Italian poet
you said
wrote the Divine Comedy
you added

she raised her eyebrows
and gave you
that I'm none the wiser stare
thought I'd come

and see you
out of school
she said
remembered

your address
nice of you to come
you said
unsure why she'd come

to this neck
of nowhere land
I saw your mother
Lizbeth said

she told me
you'd be bird watching
or digging up bones
in the woods

she had that
I'm getting bored look
the way she stood
don't get the chance

to talk with you
at school
what with
the separate playgrounds

and nosey kids in class
thinking there's
a big romance
if you talk

to a member
of the opposite ***
she looked older
than her 13 years

much older than you
being the same age
and the boys
are pretty much

dumb arses in class
except for you
she added
looking at you

with her green eyes
want to see
my collection
of bird eggs

and old bones?
you said
where are they?
she asked

in my bedroom
you replied
oh
she said

odd place
to keep old bones
nowhere else
to keep them

you said
ok
she said
and walked with you

up the country lane
and in the gate
and along the path
to the cottage door

will your mother mind?
she asked
why should she?
you asked

no reason
just that my mother
would give you
the third degree

under a bright light
she said
you took her
in the back door

taking off
the muddy boots
and so did she
standing there

in her white socks
just taking Lizbeth
to see the old bones
and bird eggs

you told your mother
ok
she said giving Lizbeth
a quick glance

don't let him bore you
to death
your mother added
with a smile

Lizbeth smiled too
and followed you up
the narrow stairs
to your small bedroom

she looked around
the room
at the wooden
chest of drawers

and double bed
who sleeps
in the bed with you?
she asked

my younger brother
you said
oh
she said

staring
at the small window
that gave view
of the garden below

and the fields beyond
you showed her
the bird eggs
you'd collected

and the old bones
from the woods
kept in a glass tank
you handed her

a blackbird egg
it lay in the palm
of her hand
it looked good

and blended well
with her soft skin
and lifeline
and headlines

across the hand
fragile isn't it?
she said
bit like my heart

she added softly
she handed back the egg
and wiped her hand
on her skirt

removing invisible
or imaginary dirt
what do you do
when not watching birds

or digging for bones?
she asked
get the cows in
from the fields

or help weigh
the milk
or help my father
in the garden

or go for walks
on the Downs
you said
you certainly know

how to live
on the wild side
she said
oh not always

you said
sometimes
it can get
quite boring

and I have to read books
or watch TV
she smiled
do you think

about girls?
she asked
not much
you said

why's that?
she asked
what's to think about?
you said

seldom see them
out here in the wilds
and at school
there's little time

or opportunity
or too many
complications
or too many

ears and noses
and eyes
what about now?
here now?

she said
gazing at you
and the double bed
what about now

and here?
you asked
putting away the egg
in the tank

and closing
the lid
to keep out air
or dust

she frowned
and sighed
as if a moment
had burned out

or an old world
had died.

I am the burner of bridges,
Said Bridget, the smoker of
Cigarettes who lies and stares
At the passing day. My childhood
Follows me like a shadow’s dark;
Its ghostly presence is always there,
Its non wise words echoing in my
Ear. I sleep with men for the lost
love, kiss them in the search for
my lost mother’s warmth, hug them
In the lonely hours. My dead babies
Cling to my legs, their tiny fingers
Clutch at my dress as I walk along;
Their eyes look up like lamps in the
Still night. I am the aborter of babes,
The owner of a useless womb; I push
Out stillborns like a factory, give birth
To a form but not to life; I am anyone’s
Woman, any man’s wife, I lay and gaze
At the moon, I watch smoke rise from
My cigarette, it forms rings as father did,
The smoke curling and rising with his
Phantom presence there in room, the
Ghostly cigarette hanging from his lips.
I have searched for God in the blackness
Of night, sought His love in the arms of men,
Awaited His coming in the winter’s wind;
His love is there, but I do not see, His arms
Caress, but I do not feel; I am alone still.
I am the walker of cities, the sitter in lone
Cafes, the easy ride, the fuckable dame;
I wear the badge of kiss me quick or leave
Me never. I am the sleeper of nights in a
Musty bed; see dead babies in heart and head.

Miryam walks along the beach
in her swimming attire, some red
and flowered design, Benedict
notes, walking just behind, having

left the two Moroccan guys behind
with the camel, with whom she'd
posed while he took camera shot.
Bet they don't do that everyday, she

says, swaying her delicious backside
side to side. No, guess not, least
not by the look on their faces,
Benedict says. She laughs, does

a Monroe kind of walk and wiggle.
We came down here last night, she
says, it was quite romantic what
with the moon, stars and warm air.

She stops and turns to look at him.
Was it about here? she asks. He
gazes about him, at the sand and
tufts of grass, the sky blue and the

odd white clouds, could be, hard
to say, it being dark and all. You
found your way around all right,
she says, smiling. Well, a guy gets

to know his way around after a while,
bit like a ****** gets to know the sea,
the rough times and the smooth,
the high tides and the low, when

its best to set out and when to stay
in port. She frowns. Is that what it's
like for you guys? Just like that? No,
he says, just being philosophical, in

fact, it was a good evening, a fine
****, he says softly. Is that all? she
asks. She stands there her hands
on hips, her head to one side. No,

of course not, it's just us guys hate
to get all soft about these things,
he says. She pouts. Soft? These
things? she says. Can't you just

say it was romantic? She says, is
it hard to say that? A fine ****?  
Is that easier to say? It's just one
syllable instead of three, he says.

She turns and walks on through
the sand. He follows, taking in
her figure, her side to side ***,
the tight red hair. OK, he says, it

was a romantic night, I loved the
whole set up, the stars, the moon,
you and me, the sand, the soft tufts
of grass, the ***, the kisses, the holds.

She stops and turns and gazes at him.
It has to mean something, she says,
otherwise we waste our lives in such
pointlessness. He nods, zooms in on

her small ****, her eyes, her whole features.
Sure we do, he says, you're right, it
was one fine romantic never to be
forgotten night. She smiles and walks

to him and kisses him and holds him.
He holds her, feels her, senses her lips
on his, and out of the corner of his eye,
he sees the two Moroccan guys and

camel walk away up the beach, they'll
never know this, he thinks, feeling smug,
far beyond their lives or random reach.

Still born. The words stick
In the throat. Even if she sees
It someplace in a magazine
Some medical journal it hits home.
Some nights she wonders if the
Imaginary kicking she thinks she
Feels is her phantom babe or
Senses her dugs go hard at the
Mere mention of the word on
The tip of her tongue: still born.
Born still or pushed forth lifeless
But wanted and needed and lost.
What really sticks in her throat
Is seeing babes in passing prams
Or backyards unwanted unneeded
By mothers who **** and shuck
Without concern while she sensing
Her heavy loss and a vacant womb
Can only look on and walk away
Or sit and weep in a darkened room.

There is that failure of communication,
At least of that soft civilized kind, the
Type that doesn’t involve blackened eyes

And broken teeth and bruises like fallen
Apples. She tries to hide her face behind
Her scarf, pulls up the collar of her coat

To conceal the bruises to her throat, pulls
The sleeves down to cover up discoloured
Arms and long skirts to mask the beaten

Thighs from her neighbours prying eyes.
He is full of jackshit and self-pity and
Mopes and sulks and blames her for the

Messy house, the kids crying, the bills high,
His fists flying. Unconditional love is the
Only real love, her mother said, lecturing

To her on her wedding eve, pushing the
Rosary beads between fingers and thumb.
Nights he doesn’t come home are best, she

Can sleep and unwind and rest. Even the kids
Can feel the peaceful air when he isn’t there.
His apologises are fake notes, they bring her

Nothing, reveal nothing, cast false hopes like
Wasted seeds, open up the pretending dreams
That life is always better than it is or seems.

I wanted to meet you
outside the National
Gallery, Julie says, but
the doctors weren't keen,

said I ****** up my drug
medication, and not let
me out for days. She
was a drug dependent,

on the cure, or so she said.
And waiting you went
to Dobells's record shop,
listened to few jazz LPs,

had a beer, sat and smoked,
thought about ***, the having
and not so. Then she shows,
her dark hair neat, pony-tailed,

her tight figure in the clothes
she wears, **** almost touchable.
Let's skip the old stuff, she says,
let's keep to the modern ****,

save time, energy, then after
a drink and chat. So you go
in the Gallery, take in all those
moderns, the stuff she likes,

the portraits, the brush skills
involved, who painted whom,
buy a few postcards, look
at books. Then off for a coffee

and chat, you go to some place
in Leicester Square, sit at a table,
take out the cigarettes, wait
for the order, take in her features

as she speaks, her eyes, her lips,
the way her hair is brushed
and kept, her tight top, those
pressing out of ****. I liked

the Picasso, she says, his stuff
really gets to me, makes other
works boring as last year's *****.
You notice how she holds her

cigarette, the fingers not yet
browny yellow, hold it just so,
not tight or loose, but gently,
like it was some baby kid instead

of tobacco filled paper deadly drug.
The coffees come, neat small cups,
tiny handles, froth and such. I feel
the need, she says,all the time that

need to hit the veins or tongue. You
hear her words, out there, fragile things,
taking flight, like doomed black birds.

Helen and you
walked home from school
the long way
you wanted to show her

the man
in the pie and mash shop
cutting up eels
for jellied eels

or for the pies
how he would stand there
with his knife
and take up an eel

and holding it
firmly on a board
would cut off its head
and then proceed

to slice it up
into small pieces
and into a bucket
on the floor

and when you showed her
standing outside the shop
peering through
the window

she said
O my God
and put a hand
to her mouth

and spoke
through her hand
and added
poor eels

to end up
in someone's stomach
and the way
he cuts them up

and the pieces
still moving afterwards  
and she moved away
and walked up the road

still holding a hand
over her mouth
you don't fancy
pie and mash then?

you said
not with eels in it no
she replied
through her fingers

you smiled
not funny
she said
poor little eel creatures

yes I guess it is
a bit brutal
you said
but fascinating

to watch
I don't think so
she said
taking her hand

from her mouth
you both went under
the subway of the junction
she slightly

in front of you
her two plaits of hair
bouncing
as she walked

her green raincoat
tied tight about her
you whistled
so that it echoed

along the subway
bouncing off the walls
all along
the artificial lights

giving off
a surreal sensation
how can people eat eels?
she asked

just the sight
puts me off
don't know
guess they don't think

of it being eels as such
just as something to eat  
you said
you both came out

of the subway
on the other side
and walked along
the New Kent Road

by the cinema
she looking
at the billboards
through her thick lens glasses

are you sure your mum
doesn't mind
having me for tea?
she said

well we're not actually
having you for tea
we usually have
beans on toast

or jam sandwiches
she slapped your hand
you know what I mean
she said smiling

no Mum don't mind
you said
she invited you after all
I pleaded against it

but she wouldn't listen
you said smiling
Helen's face frowned
and she stood still

really?
she said
no I'm joking
you said

and she nodded her head
uncertainly
looking at you
through her glasses

I'm just kidding
you said
you touched her hand
she smiled

and you both walked on
and across the bomb site
the uneven ground
the puddles of rainwater

you your mother's son
and Helen
a lucky woman's
daughter.

Mr Cutler had passed away
the room was cleared and ready
for the next resident
clean sheets

pillowcase
fresh blankets
the curtains taken down
and washed and dried

and put up again
but that didn't stop Sophia
penning you in
standing with her back

to the door
blocking your escape
he is dead now?
this Mr Cutler?

yes died the other day
you said
nice bed
she said

you looked at
the candlewick bed spread
blue and smooth
yes guess so

you replied
you gazed at her
with her blonde hair
tied in a pony tail

her ice blue eyes
focused on you
her Polish English words
harsh yet also soft

you could **** me there
she breathed
rather than said
too risky

you said
more exciting
she uttered
her Polish tongue

brutalizing
the English
who will see?
the old man dead

who else
will come in here?
some old boy might
come in by mistake

you said
an audience
will add to the fun
she breathed out

the words
you could smell
their sensuality
no I can't

I have baths to do
you uttered
looking at the door
behind her back

they can wait
she said
or you could
bath me first

she said smiling
I've got to go
you said
someone might need me

I need you
she uttered
here on the bed
I can't

you said
if you try to leave
the room I will scream
she said

I will say you try
to touch me up
as you lot say
she put one hand on a hip

and the other
against the door
they wouldn't believe you
you said

let's try
if I scream loud enough
and cry they will
she said

she mimed opening
her mouth and screaming
ok
you said

no need to scream
she smiled
good boy
I like you

she said
moving away
from the door
and unbuttoning

her blue overall coat
revealing her tight
short dress
her ******* pressing out

the top
she dropped her overall
on a chair by the window
and drew the curtains

that's better no?
it made the room darker
the shadowy light
made the moment surreal

come on
she said
mustn't waste time
and she began to undress

and you stood there
open mouthed
and doomed
when someone

called your name
down the passageway
Mr Elks needs you
where are you?

oh ****
Sophia said
dressing quickly
and standing

by the sink
out of sight
of the door way
sorry

you said
maybe another time
and you opened the door
and closed it behind you

as Matron arrived
ah there you are
Mr Elks has been
calling for you

I think he needs to go
to the bathroom
o right
you said

just been making sure
the place is ready
nodding back
at late Mr Cutler's room

ok
she nodded
and gave the door
a quick look

and then went on ahead
leaving Sophia dressing
and forsaken
no ****

for her today
and followed Matron
with no
more to say.

You're not eating properly
Eliane's mother said
you've hardly eaten a thing
Elaine who'd been thinking

of the boy John
looked up
through her glasses

at her mother
at the dining table
got to eat
her father interjected

got to eat
my young Plump Hen
her sister said nothing

but grinned
I do eat
Elaine said
but she didn't feel

like eating
it seemed the least
important thing

at that moment
her stomach felt
as if it had fallen
into a slumber

not enough
her mother said
maybe she's fallen in love

her father bantered
Elaine went red
and lowered her head
and began to nibble

at the food on her plate
nonsense
her mother said

it's some silly
slimming diet
I bet
not very successful

if it is
her younger sister said smiling
John had touched her arm

in passing at school
not by accident
but by design
he meant to touch

to bring her briefly
into his world
his circumference

she still touched
now and then
the area on her arm
he touched (at school)

with her fingers
I won't have you dieting
over some silly fad

her mother went on
but Elaine ceased listening
the words were buzzing flies
she wanted to

flick them away
with a hand
John had talked to her

not at her
or about her
(as others did)
or down to her

but with her
in a duel thing
he and she

kind of exchange
she ate slowly
the food almost
making her gag

getting stuck
in the throat
she held onto

the image of him
in her mind tried
to focus
on his outline

on his features
his words
taking each one

she could remember
and turning it over
in her mind
as if it were

a rare gem
girls your age
what are you now?

14 yes 14years old
ought not to diet
her mother said
breaking into Elaine's head

if I see you not eating again
I'm taking to the doctors
Elaine looked up

and put on
her good daughter face
that I'll do
whatever you want features

and John had placed
a hand by her head
at the school fence

his arm brushing softly
against her hair
and he never said anything
unkind about

her dark hair
or the metal grips
her mother made her wear

and her mother rattled on
but Elaine just returned
her innocent girl
stare.

Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia

two limp slices
and said
get that inside you

can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think

you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea

but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread

but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother

into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed

her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse

a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked

up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter

had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around

in her head
to see how they fitted in best  
can I?

her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible

but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no

her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where

she was
in her request
your gran always said

that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility

said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly

no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked

because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?

her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me

Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said

she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs

in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile

and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?

she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said

adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if

it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone

like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread

in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said

don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed

the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles

Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's

thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?

Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy

like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand

across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed

the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it

lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen

she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm

or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want

no pain
she'd not ask
again.

Lydia walked back
from the baker's shop
through the Square
carrying in her thin hands

the loaf of white bread
and half a dozen bread rolls
the 1/- change
from her mother's money

in her green dress pocket
her arms feeling
the chill of the morning air
the greying sky

the pigeons in flight
and she sensing
her stomach rumble
and her big sister

had just crept home
after a night out
(doing what
Lydia didn't know)

and her mother calling her
a *****( whatever that was)
and her father sleeping off
his beer

his snores vibrated
around the flat
and as she approached
her front door

Benedict came over
his cowboy hat
pushed back
his 6 shooter gun

tucked into the belt
of his blue jeans
been to the shop?
he asked

she stopped and nodded
early bird
catching the worm?
he added

bread not worm
she said smiling
she liked it
when he spoke to her

made her feel
kind of wanted
as if she were
of some worth

she liked it
when his hazel eyes
lit up
at the sight of her

how's your mother?
he asked
ok
she said

Benedict stood
and studied her
taking in
her plain green dress

the grey ankle socks
the black plimsolls
her skinny arms
and frame

are you allowed out later?
he asked
should think so
she said

where are you going?
she asked
thought we could catch a bus
to the West End

she frowned
where's that?
he smiled
up West

he said
you know Piccadilly
and Leicester Square
and such

she clutched
the bag of rolls
and the loaf of bread
tightly to her chest

isn't that far away?
a mere bus ride
he said
she looked doubtful

haven't money
she said
no problem
he said

I've enough for both of us
she looked
at her front door
best go in

or Mum'll wonder
where I've got to
he nodded
she moved towards the door

then stopped
and turned to him
see what they say
she said

Ok he said
look forward
to seeing you
she looked at him

that look
in his hazel eyes
that smile lingering
on his lips

like some show girl
waiting to come
on stage and perform
can I have a drink of cola

when we're out?
she asked
sure
he said

maybe ice cream too
they do that
soft oozy kind
up West

he said
her eyes lit up
and she smiled
Ok

she said
and just as she entered
the front door
he blew her

a young boy kiss
from his palm
and then turned
and rode off

across the Square
on his invisible horse
the coal black one
without saddle of course.

Sister Pius can still sense the taste of coffee on her tongue from breakfast with the slice of brown bread with a thin spread of butter as she turns over the page of the book on contemplation written by some unknown Carthusian nun the words momentarily failing to reach her the message left on the page the thought of the next meal already making her mouth moisten and the smell of fresh made coffee tempting her nose bringing to mind the first time she had come to the convent as a guest and young girl full of enthusiasm for the idea of being a nun much to her parent’s disquiet especially her mother who had wanted and been looking forward to grandchildren even though Eve as she was then had never been interested in boys or that side of things but her mother had said that would come she would find Mr Right and that side of things would come naturally implying Sister Pius muses now that being a nun was unnatural against nature and only the oddities in the world would want to be shut away from the world and men and their families and the prospect of marrying and having children and there had been the rows and the tempers frayed and the words said in haste and even on the day she entered her mother had not come around to the idea even if her father had accepted the fait accompli rather grudgingly and in all the years she had been in the convent her parents had not written once not a word just the one visit her father made looking at her as they spoke as if she had grown another head or caught a dreadful disease and had said her mother couldn’t bring herself to visit the place her daughter had died in and those words hurt the way her father had just come out with them the place her daughter had died in and yet she had her secrets too the things she had never told her parents especially her mother never mentioned once that her Uncle Randolph her mother’s brother had molested her one summer while she was staying with him and Aunt Grace while her parents were off on some tour of Europe and as she places her hand on the page of the book in front of her she can still feel his hands on her still sense his breath on her that smell of beer and tobacco and the roughness of his unshaven face as she leaned over her and as the memory returns again she closes the book with a small slam and the echo of it fills the room disturbs a paper on the table in front of her and the memory still fresh the deeds done so imbedded deeply that she doesn’t think it will ever go that it will ever leave and she had not said a word about that summer to anyone not even her mother not even to make a point about what men could do even those who were supposed to be close to you and yet she never did never said one word about him and the things he had done and taking a deep sigh she gets up from the chair and walks to the window looking down on the cloister garth and the mulberry tree that is now full of fruit and can see birds in the branches and a nun walking along the cloister ready to pull the bell for the office of Prime and even now she dislikes the smell of apples the smell of them cooking or the smell of apples being stored because apples she associates with him and the place he took her and the things he did and it was apples she could smell as he touched her and interfered with her and the scent of apples in the air as he leaned over her and looking down again into the cloister the nun has gone and the early morning sun is coming over the cloister wall and the bell is being tolled for Prime and making the sign of the cross she pushes the memory of him and his deeds and that summer back into the depths of her mind closes the door on it in the room in her brain’s memory cells and looking up at the Crucified on the wall above her bed with the features of the Christ battered by time and its hands she nods her head and looks away taking in her mind the image of Him and perhaps a sense of peace and the fact that she is a bride after all a bride of Christ married to one who would not ****** or hurt or say cruel words or betray and where no smell of apples will spoil her day.

He was in hospital
for a short op
a one day event
and then home

the nurse said
if you could undress
Mr Hawkins

and put on that gown
on the bed
and so he looked around
and got to the bed

and she drew
the green curtains
around him

and he stood there
and began to undress
and folded his clothes
and put them on a chair

and put on the blue gown
which did up
at the back

and stood there
wondering what
to do next
how long would

he have to wait?
he lay on the bed
and opened the book

he'd brought to read
his back ached
his hips too
how long would he be?

a nurse drew back
the curtains
and said

I need to take
your temperature?
can you tell me
your name please?

he looked at her
in her blue two piece
like a motor mechanic

rather than a nurse
what happened to those
neat uniforms?

he wondered
name?
she asked again
Mr Benedict Hawkins

he said
she ticked her list
date of birth?

he told her
how much
do you weigh?
she asked

he told her
she ticked her list again
she put a thermometer

in his mouth
and took his wrist
and looked
at her watch

he looked at her hand
her fingers
holding his wrist

the thin white fingers
the pink nails
he looked
at her ears

not too small
or large
no earrings

no small holes
where they might
have been
he studied her lips

wondered who
kissed them
if any

she took out
the thermometer  
and shook it
with a lovely

wrist action
and gazed at it
then she put it

in her top pocket
just above
her left ***
or impression of such

and she looked at him
you're 3rd on the list
she said

OK
he said
and off she walked
her swaying behind

like some gay mechanic guy
going back
to the pits

no lovely
neat uniform
or black stockings
encasing cool legs

or black
sensible shoes
or tidy white

headdress
to set it all off
just a trained
nursing mechanic

in the blue two piece
nothing to inspire
another look

so he opened
the pages
of his child
psychology book.

Milka waited by the gate
of the farmhouse
for him to arrive

her brothers waited also
for he was their friend first
even if she had
drawn in him

with her emotional tide
I showed him how
to drive a car

one said
and I showed him
how to ride a motorcycle
said the other

in a field
Milka said
just in a ******

farm field
they sniggered
what have you shown him?
the oldest brother asked

yes what fine skills
have you taught him?
the other said laughing

wouldn't you like to know
she said stormily
folding her arms
and avoiding their stares

they guffawed
in the background
then proceeded

to practice their judo
until he arrived
she turned
and glimpsed them

now and then
but all she wanted
was for him to arrive

just a quick word
and maybe kiss
before her brothers
collared him

for the judo practice
the last time he came
and practiced

he had them both down
on the ground in minutes
and she stood
and clapped and cheered

what had she shown him?
that was between
she and him

not for her snooping
brothers to know
she looked up
the narrow road

that led to the farmhouse
but he wasn't in sight
just a car

then a tractor
slowly moving along
whose driver waved
(and she embarrassed

waved back)
one of her brothers
was on the ground

the other stood triumphantly
hands in the air
she looked away
she caught

the summery air
the sight of birds
in flight

but not him
and she'd put on
her new jeans
and top( too tight

her mother said)
with a flowery pattern
then he was coming

over the hill
riding his bike
and the ******
of excitement

ran through her being
and she stood expectantly
by the gate

trying to appear casual
unconcerned
and he dismounted his bike
and came over

his Elvis style quiff
his jeans and shirt
and despite herself

she stood there on tiptoes
her body tingling
and he smiled
and shyly kissed

her cheek
and touched her hand
then walked to her brothers

and they came at him
with their judo moves
and taunts and laughter
and she stood there

watching
sensing the kiss
on her cheek

burn into her skin
and light a fire
of passion within
waiting and watching

feeling his touch
on her hand
(not to be washed off)

and she rubbed
her finger along
where he had laid
his touch

and inwardly
she mused
and thought

o God
o too much.

To Elaine
everything seemed large
where others
heard whispers

she heard loud bellowing
and vicious taunts
where others saw
light of day

and brilliant sunshine
she saw darkness
and storms
on the way

and the more she wanted
to hide away
from the world
the more it sought her out

like some black dog
of deep depression
at school she sat
at the front to hear

the teacher better
or at the back
to be unseen
and undisturbed

but then John spoke to her
and lifted the lid
and let in some light
and it seemed less dark

and seemed all right
but she wasn't sure
others had let her down before
pretended to be friends

or friendly then betrayed
or showed true colors
and joined the taunts
and jokes of others

the bell rang
for the end of history
and onward they all
sauntered to the next

dull lesson in little groups
or gangs or on
their own giving
chatter or joke

or idle moan
Elaine walked
just a little behind the rest
one step slowly

following the next
her frumpy being
looking through her glasses
at the passing walled art

or out of windows
showing the outer world
as large as giants
in fairy tales

she used to read
and thought
as she went by
the girl's toilets

the time she had the bleed
(none had told her
of the reason why
or when)

and she had sat there
in the stall
the splash of red
and whirling

of her head
and sat and sat
too frightened to move
until a girl

(one of the few)
knocked and asked
what she was doing?
and she said quietly

through the door
she was dying
or some such doing
she looked away

that girl had taken her
to the school nurse
and saved the day
and said nothing

to the others
as others may
have done
just for a laugh

or fun
she looked down
at her black
scuffed shoes

at the wooden floor
at the moving feet
just ahead
then he touched her arm

in passing
John on his way
to boring maths
he said

and smiled
and was gone
but she carried
his smile

and words
inside her head
like caged
wild birds.

During his afternoon break
and her half day from work
they met at the back
of his house by the woods

where the corrugated
iron garage stood
she in her grey skirt
and white blouse

and summer jacket
and he in blue top
and jeans and hair
combed in the Elvis style

slightly greased
she talked of the store
she worked
the customers

the manager's moans
the poor pay
and he listening
as they walked

through the woods
hand in hand
she animated
her voice clear

as dawn's light
he liking to hear
sensing her mood
thinking of the school days

the year before
how easier it was
back then to meet
that time in the gym

at school in lunch hour
and later
that hay barn adventure
and that time

they got caught out
in the rain
and were drenched
and how his mother

let her dry and wear
other clothes she'd saved
they reached the edge
of the pond

and stared out
and over the watery skin
the ducks
the swan who'd

settled there
and they lay
on the grass
dry as hay

flowers weary
from the afternoon heat
birds singing
from branches over head

and she lay back
taking in the sky
hands behind her head
and he lay beside her

commenting
on passing clouds
the shapes
and what they were

he sensing her there
her hand
her body close
to his

her raised leg
the way her thigh was
the eyes of her
gazing upwards

the blue gazing
at blueness
and he thinking
of that time

by this pond
they last came
and she kissed him
until his lips

were sore
but now she lay
and talked of clouds
and what the shapes

may be
or of work
and how it tired her
no kissing of lips

or caressing hands
on flesh
just the lying
the idle talk

the sky above
the slow
seeping away
of a former love.

Christina walked home
from school
in a strop
she'd not seen

Benedict all day
not on the sports field
(too wet
the prefect said)

nor in the corridors
despite searching
wide eyed
high and low

and in double maths
she'd doodled his name
in the inside cover
of her exercise book

to feel close to him
at least in mind
he was there
his sister said

he was some place
or other
she'd said
in a classroom

or gym
(oh to be there
Christina mused
to be close to him)

and once home
she strode
through the house
(ignoring

her mother's complaints
of this being left undone
or unwashed linen
left on the floor

of her room)
and up the stairs
and into her room
shutting the door

on her mother's tirade
(in one of her
blue moods no doubt)
and putting a chair

against the door
to keep her mother out
she lay on her bed
and took out

the photo of him
from beneath her pillow
and lay it
on her breast

and let him rest
all day and not
one sight
not a glimpse

not a passing shadow
just the teachers
and their talk
and other girls

and their chat
and giggles of boys
or such
oh it was all too much

she mused
rubbing the photo
against her breast
(nearer to her heart

symbolically)
closing her eyes
imagining him there
kissing her lips

******* her hair
talking like he did
of this or that
of some book he liked

or some place
he'd been or liked
to go
but in her mind

at least
he was there
having placed
his clothes

on the chair
being quite bare
(as was she of course
in her mind's eye)

just he and she
laying alone
he saying yea
and she making moan

but disturbed
by her mother's knock
at the door
(the imagining dispersed

he but vapour
in her mind)
and her mother's voice
much calmer

just asking
about some tea and toast
(all sins forgiven)
yes OK

Christina said
tucking his photo
beneath the pillow
and rising

from the bed
carrying his image
and her dreaming
inside her head.

He first notice Elaine
as she waited
for the school bus
standing there

in the pouring rain
with her younger sister
and other kids
from the village

he noticed
how drowned she looked
her spectacles so wet
she couldn’t see out

her dark hair
hanging limp
about her face
and she looked down

not up
as she climbed
aboard the bus
making her way

down the aisle
of the bus
like some female Crucified
and sat in the seat

by the window
and peered out
her sister sat
next to her

equally as wet
yet unperturbed
laughing at another
who jested

at her state
but Elaine's
was a separate state
a lesser one's fate

knowing other eyes
gazed and sniggered
and whispered
into their hands

but not John
he saw her through  
his own eyes
pushed away

the sneers
and sighs
and sniggering japes
and saw a deeper soul

within peering out
through the window glass
that showed
the falling rain

he looked away
taking note of her hair
and eyes
and glasses smeared

and how she pushed
her wet hands
between the caresses
of her knees

and dampened skirt
how by the look
of her face
revealed

her inner hurt
and as the bus
moved off and on
the radio blaring

some Mike Sarne song
the voices of children
competing for the space
and John half listening

to Trevor talk
some such of fishing
with a friend
at pond or river

he did not discern
or Trevor’s sister
across the aisle
chatting of some dress

her mother bought
not the fashion
she complained
but John held close

the image of the girl
who sat behind
across the aisle
whose dampened

state of dress
and soul
had moved his mind
and touched his heart

but said nothing
to either Trevor
with talk of fish
and rod

or Monica's dress
or clothes whatever
it had been
unfashionable or such

as undesired
he looked out
at the passing scene
as the bus raced by

thinking of Elaine
sitting a little way
behind
wiping the raindrops

from glasses
so she could see
and not be
half blind.

And it was the first time,
that kiss, that Christmas.

You and she were walking
just behind the other members
of the church choir, carol singing,
the parson, conducting the members,
he in overcoat, hat on, scarf
against the cold, the evening air.

And she said, softly, so only
you could hear, softer than
the snow that threatened to fall,
I think I love you.

You, looking at her there,
standing inches away,
her breath high-lighted
in the light of moon
and the houses near by,
said, I love you, too.  

Words, spread, as if
on free rein, like little children
off on some adventure,
some new game,
came quick and fast.

Then, she leaned in,
and kissed your lips,
pressed them so gently
on yours. So gently
that it seemed they met
yet seemed not to
in same breath.

You embraced her,
arms about her,
drawing her nearer,
her body, into yours,
warmth and warmth,
like two planets colliding,
not in crash, but as if
merged, entwined, as if one.

The sound of some carol
being sang breathed
on the air, floated there,
held in balance
by the gentle wind.

You and she parted lips
and bodies, but held hands,
a new love had been born,
a new fire started, feeling
erupted along the strings
of nerves, set mind on fire
with a new, unknown, never
before experienced,
out of this world desire.

You had never seen kale before
it looked like large cabbage plants
reaching skyward
so that you could hide in it

and not be seen
from the farm
and Jane walked
with you there

and you both sat there talking
she about her father
and how he prepared
his Sunday sermons

right after the one given
on the previous Sunday
and how he liked
to close himself away

from the family
for hours at a time
with just his Bible
and other books

and God of course
and get it down
and afterwards
polish it up

until he had it off to pat
and you listened to her
trying to imagine
what it must be like

to have a father
who was a pastor
and you'd met her father
a few times

and her mother more
(and was told
she liked you)
and tried to think

about what her father's sermons
were about
(you never went
to the services)

and as she sat there
with her flowery dress
red and yellow
and those white ankle socks

and walking-about
-the-farmland-shoes
and dark hair
tied at that moment

with a red ribbon
you noticed
how beautiful she was
in her own way plain way

and how her hands
were held together
over her knees
as she raised her legs

and how the sun light
still reached
you both there
in the kale

and warmed
and eased you both
and you talked
of London

and when you left
and why
and how so different it was
and how you could walk

to at least to two cinemas
whereas here
there was none
but that you didn't mind

as it was a new life
and next to nature
and you could learn
new things kind of life now

and she smiled
and that thrilled you
that smile
that spread of lips

that pierce your heart
and mind kind of smile
and her wrists
slim and white

and the fingers
thin and white
and the nails
had white half moons

on them
and you wanted
to sit there
with her forever

in the tall kale
with the bright sun
and secret love
and feel inside

and 13 year old
sensibilities
each wanting to touch
but not at least not much

and she pointed out
a Red Admiral butterfly
fluttering over the kale
and slowly by.

Are you in there?
Miryam said
through the canvas
of the tent

no
you replied
I'm out
you are there

she said
and unzipped the zip
and poked her head
in the gap

you were lying there
in your sleeping bag
gazing at her red
fuzzing hair

and large eyes
where's your friend?
she asked
gone for a shower

you said
she unzipped all down
and came in the tent
walking on her knees

like Toulouse Lautrec
in a wig
and lay down beside you  
how long before he's back?

no idea
you said
have we time for ***?
risky

you said
sometimes risky
is enjoyable
she said softly

running her hand
down the outline
of your leg
not when an ex-army guy

comes in
and see his sleeping partner
******* some red head
in his tent

you said
she pouted her lips
spoilsport
she said

in your ear
yes I guess so
you said
what we doing today?

she asked
we're moving
onto Malaga apparently
the coach leaves at 9.30

she looked
at her wrist watch
gives us an hour
she said

in a whispering voice
gives me an hour
to get showered
and dressed

and breakfasted
and such
you said
she lay back beside you

on the sleeping bag
isn't Malaga
where Picasso was born?
yes that's right

you said
do you like his work?
she asked
sure

it makes me
want to see it again
and again
it does?

she said
as if I had said
I like to wear
ladies's underwear

don't you find his work
kind of odd?
she said
that's what I like about it

it breaks out
of that prison
which people have put
around art

as if only
such and such
can be art
she put her lips

on your cheek
wet and warm
don't I tempt you at all?
not one little bit?

she walked her fingers
down your leg
and moved them
towards your groin

not about 6ins worth?
she said sexually
how did we get
from Picasso

to you finger walking
on my *****?
all is art you said
she whispered

you've left the zip unzipped
the ex-army guy said
poking his head
in the gap

what's she doing in here?
he said
just popped in
to see how he is

Miryam said
looking at the guy
with his short
back and sides haircut

and smelling
of shampoo and soap
well now you've seen
you can go

he said
can't he and I
have *** first​​?
she said

in her imitation
Monroe voice
no you can't
he said

go elsewhere
if you must do
such things
and he sat back

on his haunches
and stared at her
his arms folded
Ok

she said
and kissed your cheek
and walked on her knees
out of the tent

and stood up
and looked in
before the ex-army guy
could zip back up

shame
she said
we could have had
a *******

go away
he said
before I slap your backside
promises promises

Miryam said
and walked off
towards her tent
across the camp base field

girls huh?
you said
but he didn't reply
he just began packing

his stuff into his suitcase
ready for the next move
and so you closed your eyes
and imagined her

there beside you again
listening
to the patter patter
of the Spanish rain.

Baruch took the bus
to Kennington park
he wanted to see
a different place

away from the usual
the familiar sights
and people
he had brought

Fay along
having paid
her bus fare
and saying

they’d not be late
(she worrying
about her father
getting home from work

and finding
that she'd not
completed her
school essay

on The Ten Commandments)
and also
that she was with him
(whom her father

termed the Jew boy)
and he said it was better
if she never saw him
which was impossible

as they lived
in the same
block of flats
and went by

each other
on the stairs
but her mother knew
and said

to keep it quiet
and gave Fay a 1/-
for an ice cream
and drink of cola

they walked around
the park
she gazing
at the flowers

and butterflies
and birds
and he imagining
Injuns about

to pop out
of the bushes
or over
the small mound

(he called a hill)
on their mixed
coloured horses
and firing arrows

from their bows
or shooting
from rifles
and as he walked

he patted
the 6 shooter gun
in the holster
hanging

from the belt
of his jeans
( hidden
by his grey jacket)

she talked
of the nun at school
who slammed
a wooden ruler

on the palms
of girls
who didn't know
their catechism

all through
and the girl
who had her
legs slapped

for wearing
her school dress
too short
(she'd outgrown it

and her parents
couldn't afford another)
and he talked
of the cowboy film

he'd seen the other day
where the cowboy
wore his two guns
back to front

so that he had to
cross hands
to reach them
and still out drew

the bad guys
and which he wanted
to practice until
he had it just right

she listened to him quietly
taking in
his hazel eyes
the wavy hair

and that
bright eyed stare
and he listened to her
gazing at her

as he did so
at her fair hair
held in metal hair grips
her blue eyes

her pale complexion
that nervousness
she seemed to have
as if her father

was going to leap out
at her from a bush
and the bruise
on her upper arm

he'd seen
when she removed
her cardigan
having got hot

in the midday sun
and after walking around
for a while
and then sitting

looking at some
old guy feeding birds
with broken bread
they bought two ice creams

and bottles of cola
and she said
a grace in Latin
and he mumbled

some Hebrew prayer
and they sat licking
and eating
and drinking

and once she kissed
his cheek shyly
and said they'd
best get home

before her father did
and he saw her
with him
the upstairs Jew

(as her father
termed him)
and gave her
what for

as soon
as she went
timidly
through the front door.

Behind Sister Bridget's
black habited back
one legged Anne

gave her a one fingered
up you sign
the nun unaware

walked on down
the lush green lawn
the girl with burn scars

on her arm and leg
mouthed
I'm going to tell

but her wide eyed stare
betrayed
she never would

just a maybe
-if-I-had-the-nerve
gesture

hey Skinny kid
Anne said
in lowered voice

hand to the side
of her mouth
as she'd seen spies do

in war films
or on TV
how about we sneak

into town?
the Kid impassively
shrugged

his narrow shoulders
buy you some sweet
if you'll come?

that decided it
and he nodded
and as the nun

walked down the lawn
chatting to the other kids
who were convalescing

from sicknesses
or burns or accidents
Anne and the Kid

sneaked off back
towards the big house
now a nursing home

for children
she on her crutches
he following behind

looking back
towards the lawn
and once inside

they ventured out
the side door
along the path

by the hedge
and down the side road
that led into town

pass traffic
she crutched along
the Kid bringing up

the rear
her one leg treading
the paving

the stump swinging
silently
beneath her skirt

and the Kid
catching her up
walked beside her

and she said
got to get out
of that **** place

with all those
other kids
and those holy nuns

with their tall tales
and frustrated dreams
the Kid said nothing

he was thinking
of the night
she wanted him

to scrub her back
in the bath
or that other time

when he helped her
from her wheelchair
and accidentally

touched her tight ****
by mistake
and the WHAT THE ****

of her words
and the secret feel
had him wandering

outside
his safety zone
like a child at night

finding themselves
in the dark
all alone.

Down came
the heavy rain
***** coal
coloured puddles

and you and Helen
stood under
the railway bridge

she clutching her doll
Battered Betty
close to her chest

you staring out
at the grey rain
thunder and lightening

making Helen scream
and clutching
your arm

her thick lens spectacles
steamed up
and hiding her eyes

I hate lightening
she said
what if it strikes us dead

it won't
you said
putting on

the brave boy routine
not while
you're with me

she didn't look
convinced
to a great degree

and peered out
through her smeary spectacles
when will it stop?

she said
it's not near
you said

you have to count
the seconds
between the lightening

and the thunder
and that should tell you
how far away it is

she took off her glasses
can you wipe these for me?
so you took the spectacles

and wiped the glass
on the end
of your shirt

until clear and clean
and handed them
back to her

and she put them on
that's better
she said

peering out
at the rain
and the puddles

on the cobblestones
of the short road
and the bomb site

nearby
you counted
after the flash of lightening

and the bang of thunder
10
you said

it's 10 miles away
she peered out again
at the grey sky

and pouring rain
seems right above us
she said

you gazed at her
standing there
drowned looking

with her hair
hanging over her face
and stuck

to her head
her dress clinging
to her tightly

her shoes sodden
you felt heavy
as if you'd swam

in a lake
and climbed out
fully dressed

with your jeans
and shirt wet through
clinging to you

I'm cold
she said
her teeth beginning

to chatter
her knees knocking
she clutching

Battered Betty
you put an arm
around her

and held her close
smelling the damp
the rain

the peppermint
on her breath
come

you said
let's go home
before we catch

a death
and you took her hand
and ran along

the cobblestones
stepping by puddles
and down Meadow Row

her fingers becoming cold
her hand wet
and slippery

and she beside you
clinging on
to her doll

by its swinging arm
making its one
good eye open

and close
like one feeling sleepy
wanting to doze.

She wiped her glasses
and put them on
and lay in bed
looking towards the window
she'd hardly slept

all night
the light brought
a new day
Sunday with church bells

from across the way
and the trees outside
the window swaying
Elaine still felt tired

she had tried not
to think of the boy John
who had talked to her
at school on the Friday

but every time
she turned over
he was there
talking about birds

about the skills
of the sparrow-hawk
or some such talk
had he really

talked to her?
doubts came
maybe it was just
a game he was playing

some big tease
put up to by others
to make laugh
and others please

she repeated word on word
sentence after sentence
trying to recall
his tone of voice

and those hazel eyes
of his peering
into her head and thoughts
God forbid

somethings are best hid
she thought
she'd got through
the previous day

without mentioning
about the boy to anyone
even during meals
when conversations

were strong
and always going on
she'd kept quiet
sat there staring

at the clock on the wall
or with vacant stare
the first boy
who had actually

spoken to her
and not verbally
abused or called
her names

or sniffed her school coat
and holding a nose
pretended to collapse
and die

OK
so she was frumpy looking
and shy
and the glasses

weren't her best feature
and her hair was hard
to manage and keep neat
but did he really talk to her

by the fence at school?
did he really touch her
as he went off  
to get on the bus?

closing her eyes
she tried to
picture him again
the brushed back hair

the wrinkled forehead
the hazel eyes peering
the undone school tie
the unbuttoned shirt

that inch or so
of naked skin
and turning over in bed
she tried to hold on

to the image
inside her head
and snuggle down
between blankets

and sheets
with head on her pillow
Mum said it's time
to get up for breakfast

her younger sister said
no wasting the time
daydreaming
and then she had gone

out the door
leaving it ajar
time to get up
to get through the day

wondering if he'd be there
tomorrow and would
he talk again
or was that just

a one off
conversation
a bit of a lark
but she recalled him

once more
as she rose from bed
and walked
to the bathroom to wash

and wake
and even when
she returned
and began to dress

watching her frumpy frame
in the cupboard mirror
her small *******
her hair in a mess

she kept his image
in mind
trying to find
the place where

he touched her
sensing along
with her fingers
biting her lip

this new sensation
this opening up
like being on the edge
of a new world

wondering what it was
she felt inside and along her skin
was it natural
or was it a sin?

Mrs O’Brien stood
at the office hatch
of the factory
as Naaman approached

he stood there
gazing at her
how long
were you on that job?

she asked
about 6 inches
he said
looking at her

standing there
with dyed brown hair
and glasses
making her eyes

look larger
seriously I mean
in time how long?
she said

about 2 hours
he replied
about?
she said

I need accurate time
I am doing a time
and motion study
he looked at her

non plus
1 hour and 45 minutes
and 45 seconds
he said

trying to see himself
in the glass
of her spectacles
trying to gauge

how old she was
seeing the crowfeet
at the corner
of her eyes

she sighed
accurately?
yes
he said

she looked at him
as if he were her son
and had spoken
out of turn

any problems
Mrs O'Brien?
the manager asked
no Mr Nede

she said
giving Naaman the eye
just a bit of confusion
with Naaman here

about timing
she said
it was how long
Naaman?

Naaman took out
a piece of paper
from the pocket
of his jeans

and handed it to her
she read it
and scribbled it down
in a notebook

thank you Naaman
she said
giving the look
of a mother at a child

who had been punished
anything at any time
Naaman said
winking an eye

she looked at him frowning
as if a small window
had opened in her mind
and let in light

she walked away
from the hatch
carrying the notebook
and Naaman watched her

studying her
swaying behind
the patterned skirt
the dark brown stockings

the high heeled shoes
she sat at her desk
and saw him
still there at the hatch

anything else Naaman?
she asked
if you like
he said quietly

what is it
I can do for you?
pleasure
he said

and walked off
along the factory floor
between noisy machines
and the other workers

wondering how well
she'd pleasure
if at all or
even if he'd

want to
and switched on
his machine again
with more work to do.

Elaine never told
anyone at home
over the weekend

about the boy
who spoke to her
at school on the Friday

that some boy
spoke to her
without verbal abuse

or name calling
was quite a phenomenon
in itself

and if she told
her sister
she would have guffawed

and her father
would have said
who's speaking

to my squat hen?
and her mother
would have looked at her

as if to say you
and that imagination
of yours

so she kept it
to herself
tucked it into

her small *******
next to her heart
and repeated

what he had said
when no one
was around to listen

even in the bath
sitting there
breast high

in soapy suds
(borrowed
from her sister)

she went over
his words
and how

he had said them
and how
she had blushed

as he came up to her
on the sports field
as she stood

by the wire fence
away from others
hands in pockets

snuggled up
into her black coat
her head down

her black hair
center parted
untidily hanging

and said
most birds
have nested by June

but you can still see
where they've nested
she looked at him

wondering if it
was some kind of joke
and that others

may have put him
up to it
but none was there

he stood alone
his brown
brushed back hair

his hazel eyes
gazing into her
as if they saw

her soul
and were feeding there
o I suppose so

she said
her features she knew
had reddened

her words came
out of pitch
do you know much

about birds?
he asked
she gazed at him

standing there
one hand of his
on the fence

by her head
the other in his pocket
she fumbled

for more words
opening up her mind
from its exile

not really
she said
thought not

he said softly
girls don't tend to
I'm John by the way

he added
pointing to his chest
moving back

giving her room
to move
she hesitated

wondering if
she should tell him
her name

she bit her lip
then said
I'm Elaine

he smiled
nice name that
think Tennyson

wrote a poem
about a woman named that
or was it some other?

he looked distracted
for a moment
anyway that was

way back
he said bet
no one has written a poem

about you yet have they?
she looked at his forehead
there were lines there

as if he thought a lot
or maybe too much
no they haven't

she said
shame
he said

you look like
the type of girl
who needs a poem

written about them
she looked over his shoulder
a group of boys

were kicking ball
a group of girls
further over

were sitting on the grass
laughing and talking
but were not

looking her way
but seemed
other wise engaged

shouldn't think anyone
would write a poem
about me

she said
looking at her
black scuffed shoes

course they should
he said
I would

if I was that way
inclined
but I'm more a reader

than writer
she wondered why
he was speaking to her

why he was there
standing in front
of her

staring at her
with his hazel eyes
you've nice eyes

he said
chocolaty brown
and warm and deep

she felt out
of her comfort zone
as if she wandered

into someone else's head
the bell rang
from the school

lunch recess was over
and the boys
kicked the ball

into the tall grass
and the group of girls
rose up from the grass

and walked school wards
like cattle
at milking time

she looked back
at the building
through the wire fence

at the returning pupils
best get back
to being brain washed

he said
see you around
and he touched

her arm gently
as he moved away
walking in a slow

couldn't-care less
-if- I-go- there-pace
she watched him go

her feet
seemingly
rooted to the spot

and her body
was tingling
and feeling hot.

Julie stuffed the cigarette
into her mouth
and hungrily inhaled
Benedict was late

and she standing
by Charing Cross station
was annoyed
the morning

had started bad
the nurse on the ward
questioned whether
she should be allowed out

after not taking
her medication
and who
was she meeting?

after such questioning
and the doctor saying
OK but to be back
by such and such

an hour
she felt like a child again
as if her parents
had been resurrected here

and not at home
traffic whirled by
noise
cars hooting

vans and lorries
passing by
people
O such people

Eliot was right
about death
undoing so many
she exhaled

watching the smoke
sit on the air
before being
whooshed off

by a passing car
last time Benedict said
he'd meet her
by the station

at such and such
a time
and here she was
but not he

she leaned
against the fence
last time they'd gone
to the cinema

but this time
she wanted
more time away
from such places

to be with him
not sit
and watched a film
but where was he?

she felt like a *****
standing there
smoking
one hand supporting

one elbow
one hand holding
the cigarette in such
a sluttish way

she did feel
such a ****
wearing the short skirt
and the red top

her hair drawn severely
into a bun
at the back
of her head

last time
in Trafalgar Square
she'd been almost
picked up twice

dressing as she had
telling them
to *******
getting mad

even the nurse
on the ward
thinks she a ****
especially after

that quick ***
with Benedict
in that side room
she laughed  

and inhaled
her spirits rising
with the sight of him
coming up the hill

from the underground
waving his hand madly
happy to see him
knowing the day

after all won't end
that badly
and the image
in her mind

of the ***
in the cupboard
amidst brooms
and buckets

and mops
in the dark
and the fumbling
and he walking fast

towards her
that bright expression
in his eyes
thinking that is how

worlds are born
while another dies.

Monica rode her bike
to Benedict’s house
and waited there
for him to come home

after his morning shift
at work
then they both
walked down

to the espresso bar
by the iron
railway bridge
and ordered two coffees

and listened to Elvis
belting from the jukebox
never told my mother
where I was going

Monica said
why not?
Benedict asked
because she'd not let me

come otherwise
Monica said
why not?
he said

because she thinks
you're too old
I’m  only16
she knows I am

I’m the same age
as Jim
I know
but she thinks

I’m too young for you
but I’m 14
not some kid
in nappies

Monica said
so where
does she think
you are then?

she thinks I’ve gone
for a bike ride
what if someone
sees you with me?

what then?
she won't find out
Monica said
but if she does?

he said
I’ll just say I met you
while bike riding
and we had a coffee

and chat
he smiled
and shook his head
no wonder

she gets annoyed with you
well a girl's got to find
her freedom sometime
she said

he looked at her
sitting there
in her white top
and blue jeans

and pink socks
and open toed shoes
she had applied lipstick
probably borrowed

from her mother
he thought
where now then?
she asked

she drained her coffee
someone had put on
a Beatles' song
on the jukebox

you should have told
your mum
you were coming with me
then we could have gone

somewhere else
he said
we still can
she said

then she'll wonder
where you've got to
she won't
Monica said

she didn't look convinced
let's go back to your place
and see her
and I can explain

he said
not now
Monica said
next time

he frowned
OK
he said
let's go back to my place

and we can go ride
some place
OK
she said moodily

and they walked back
to his house
and got their bikes
and rode to the bridge

down the lane
and set down
the bikes by the hedge
and walked through

the woods
he thinking
of the Elvis Presley film
he could have taken her

to see
and she
thinking
of the last time

in the woods
when they kissed
and she wanted
that moment

of thrill again
and over head
the sound
of thunder

and beginning
of rain.

Ingrid climbed over
the metal fence
by Banks House

and onto the grass
her mother's shouting
in her ears

her father's hand
fresh upon the flesh
of her thigh stinging

the early morning sun
came over
the flats nearby

the grey clouds
promising rain
she climbed over

another metal fence
and crossed over
into Jail park

to ride the swings
or slide
or just sit

by the sandpit
and muse
and wait

Benedict would come soon
or so he said
the night before

as he walked her
to her door
hearing her parents

rowing
the park was almost deserted
a few kids

in the sandpit
one on the slide
she sat on one

of the swings
and pushed off
from the ground

her thigh stinging
as she moved away
reaching for the sky

her feet in the air
trying to get there
she leaned forward

then back
to get herself higher
pushing herself

up and up
feeling the air
in her face

in her hair
thinking of how
her sister got away

with things but she
did not
she was punished

for little things
while she could stay
out late

or come home drunk
and back chat and lie
but she had only

to make a mistake
or say a wrong word
or look the wrong way

and it was slap
or whack as it
was today

her feet reached up
her black battered shoes
seemingly touching

the sky
she looked around
on the ground

at the trees
or kids
feeling free

to think
and breathe
and be

but still no Benedict
in sight
no sign of him

since last night
she missed him
and needed him today

someone to listen
to what had happened
to her today

she slowed down
the swing
put her feet

as brakes
to come to a halt
and sit and stare

then she heard
his voice
Benedict had come

cowboy hat
and jeans
and 6 shooter gun

and that broad smile
and he sat on a swing
beside her

and she told him
about the morning
and the slap

and thump
and whack
he listened

and saddened
and took her hand
and said

let's go find our horses
and ride to the place
that cowboys go

in that far away land
and she nodded
and said

we can have a cabin
with curtains
and a wooden bed

and table and chairs
and land to have
as far as the eye

could see
sure
he said

where ever we are
your parents
won't be.

He always thought
hers was a peasant's body
not as a critique
but by something

about the simplicity
of the way she walked
or stood or the way
she lay on the double bed

one hand resting
on her naked abdomen
her brown haired head
on a pillow at rest

the way one leg
was raised
one flat down
on the bed

the small area
of ***** hairs
he was by the window
of his bedroom

looking at the garden below
then up along the road
the afternoon sun
settling on the trees

aren't you coming
back to bed?
she said
still not satiated ?

he said smiling
sensing his pecker move
not of you
she said

or of Percy
if he's willing
he sniggered
at her nickname

for his pecker
the green bus went by
along the road
good God

he said
that's her bus
whose?
she said

my mother's bus
she’ll be here
in a few minutes  
she lay there

open mouthed
uncertain of what
to say or do
you'll have to get up

and we'll go
before she wonders
what we were doing
up here

he said
she moved from the bed
as if in a daze
her nakedness complete

her ******* bobbing
her hands searching
around for her clothes
he moved faster

hurrying his dressing
taking quick glimpses
through the window
his mother was not

in view
he took a glance
at his lover
semi dressed

hair in a mess
her naked buttocks
disappearing
into cloth

he loved that final glimpse
of nakedness
that final sight
of bare flesh

his mother was in sight
along the road
quick
he said

downstairs
and she grabbed
her stockings
and shoes

and followed him
down the stairs
two at a time
her bare feet

sensing the cold floor
through the kitchen
and out the back door
along the brick pathway

he closed the door
and locked
and put the key
back under the mat

and speedily
followed his lover
into the woods
the ground prickling

beneath his feet
and she smiling
out of breath
hiding behind

the old shed
putting on her stockings
and he wondering
how it may have been

if his mother
had caught them
making love
and their nakedness seen.

Benedict wasn’t
in school that day
Christina heard
and the whole day

to get through
without him
to see or talk with
at lunch recess

on the field
she sat through
double maths
in a daze

of boredom
catching sight
of some boys
on the sports field

warming up
for sports
in their shorts
and tops

but it was of no thrill
for her
without Benedict
being out there

running about
with his legs bare
she sat all through
biology writing down

words from the board
into her book
without interest
or care

sneaking a peak
at the photo of him
in her writing case
the one he gave her

for the one she
gave him
the other day
she mused

crossing the T’s
and dotting the i's
they’d gone
onto the sports field

after lunch
during recess
walked about
away from the boys

kicking ball
or the girls
sitting in groups
laughing

and chatting
up near the fence
beside the wood
they stood

he talking
of some actress
who'd died
or committed suicide

and she taking in
his neck
the open shirt
the tie undone

his bare skin
sensing unknown things
feelings awaking
and she listened

and stood near
his hand inches
to hers
and she talked

of her mother
and the moans
about this and that
and wanting stockings

but her mother saying
no you're too young
and how she sneaked
into her mother’s room

and tried some on
and he smiled
and took her hand
feeling her fingers

between his thumb
and finger
pressing gently
and she looked

about her
turned and kissed him
her lips on his
his words lost

his fingers pressing
along her back
but now she sat
gazing at the girl in front

whose dark brown hair
was woven neatly
in a plait
resting on her sharp

white collar
and green knitted jumper
if only Benedict
was here

she thought
hands beneath the desk
touching
fingers holding

knees pressing
against each
but that was all a dream
and he beyond reach.

And Baruch met Yehudit
by the pond
through the woodland
over a few fences

and through fields of cattle
avoiding cow pats
the morning air warm
and she waiting there

gazing at the pond
at the ducks
swimming there
birds flying across

the water's skin
the trees in full leaf
and she turned
when she heard him coming

thought you might not come
she said
she was wearing
an old green skirt

and white blouse
and her brown hair
was held in place
by a green band

I said I'd come
he said
yes I know
but people sometimes

let you down
she said
he stood beside her
at the water's edge

have a problem getting out?
he asked
a bit
she said

Mother insisted on me
doing this and that
and where
are you going anyway?

she asked after
I did the chores
to see Baruch I replied
oh him my mother said

she sat down
on the grass
and he sat next to her
she sat cross legged

he sat with his legs
out straight
looking
at his old shoes

not impressed by me then?
he said
not impressed
with any male

she said
except her sons
and even they
have to meet

her standards
nice legs
Baruch said
pointing to her thighs

showing
where her skirt rode up
she pulled it over
her knees

you don't help your case
she said smiling
she watched as a swan
landed on the water

and swam as if it
owned the pond
beautiful isn't it?
she said

almost like you
he said
I'm being serious
she said

so am I
he replied
she didn't stop
you coming though

he added
it was close
I had to promise
not to get into mischief

she said
o that's messed up
our day then
he said smiling

she looked at the trees
above her head
I think someone
told her

about seeing us here
she said
what just sitting here
watching ducks?

maybe not just sitting
she said looking at him
her eyes light blue
in the sunlight

had that
draw me in
and see Heaven look
about them

her lips parted
the tip of tongue
ah then
he said

maybe
she said
not impressed?
he said

no don't think she was
who saw us?
God knows
she said

probably does
but He won't tell
Baruch said
you shouldn't blaspheme

she said
he kissed her lips
as she spoke
the words being swallowed

and she closed her eyes
and lips kissed lips
and the swan flew off
the wings breaking

the still air
but they still kissed
as if in someone's Heaven
there.

And Jane held the butterfly
in the palms of her hands
gently opening up
a mere gap
so that you could glimpse it

it tickles
she said
and she laughed
and that aspect of her

thrilled you
the way she held
her head to one side
her eyes in wonderment

of the captured butterfly
her soft hands
as if she were caressing
the head of a first born

see?
she said
see its beautiful colouring
and you glimpsed

the bright colours
it's a Peacock butterfly
she said
and she stood there

on the narrow road
to Diddling Church
in the grey dress
with yellow flowers

and the muddy shoes
and white socks
her hands opening
and you both watched

as the butterfly
fluttered off
across the hedgerow
out of sight

one of God's treasures
my father calls them
she said
still gazing where

the butterfly had been
a butterfly was a butterfly
to you
fresh from London

unused to the country fare
the clean air
the wide expanse of space
did you see many

butterflies in London?
she asked
guess so
you said

can't say I paid them
much mind
you are funny
she said

all this beauty
and it doesn't strike you?  
you stared at her
standing there

her eyes wide open
her hands gesturing
as if to include
all about her

her dark hair
neatly brushed
her dark eyes
focusing on you

getting to me
each time I'm with you
and you explain things
you said

she smiled
and o that
really held you
in a sway that smile

that spread of lips
come on
she said
let's go look

at the gravestones
in the church yard
and so you followed her
up the narrow road

feeling the warm sun
of the Saturday afternoon
wanting to hold her hand
feel her fingers

in yours
sense the smoothness
feel her pulse of life
and you entered

through the wooden gate
along the stones
which made a path
the tombstones

high and low
chiselled names and dates
she stood by the church wall
and stared at the

beyond the hedge
you stood next to her
and touched her hand
with yours

your fingers touching
warm
soft
and she looked at you

and said
you can kiss me
if you like
and stood there waiting

and you unsure
wanting to but shy
not wanting
to mess things

or get it wrong
but you kissed her cheek
and then her lips
holding her

feeling her arms
about you
and you sensed
her waist slim

your fingers touching
and lips to lips
o God
you mused

confused
moved apart
she smiling
you uncertain

and she said
my mother likes you
says you're different
from the local boys

something that sets
you apart
you frowned
and said

am I?
kiss good
she said
not greedy

or too passionate
or too sensuous
but like holding
that butterfly just now

something tickled
inside me
she said
you gazed

into her dark eyes
as a Peacock
butterfly
fluttered overhead.

Fay met Baruch
by Arch Street
off of Meadow Row
he was by

the bombed out ruins
across the way
firing his catapult
at tin cans

and empty bottles
she stood at his side
hands in the pockets
of her cardigan

fair hair held
in place by a slide
not firing at the birds
are you?

she asked
looking anxious
no just cans
and bottles

he said
she seemed relieved
and stepped closer
hate to see things hurt

or killed
she said
he tucked the catapult
into the belt

of his jeans
and wiped his hands
on the blue cloth
your old man

let you out then?
he said
she looked about her
in case her father

was near at hand
to hear
my father’s off
for the day

she said
some church things
she added
good to have you here

Baruch said
he stared at her
taking in her hair
and eyes

and her mouth ajar
lips and small teeth
the patterned dress
coming to the knees

red on yellow
going to the flicks later
you want to come?
he asked

she frowned in thought
where?
Camberwell Green
he said

the picture house
is a fleapit
but the film’s good
she blinked

wiped her nose
no money
she said
Dad said to read

Mark Chapter 9
all through
before he gets home
and he will

question me
and if I don’t know it
she became silent
and looked away

Baruch caught sight
of a bruise yellowing
on her right brow
he’d not seen

until she moved
her hair by hand
to wipe her nose
when’s he back?

Baruch asked
late tonight
she said
best not go

she looked across
the bomb site
towards the coal wharf
where horse drawn wagons

came and went
or coal lorries  
along the small road
carrying their load

got time to take in
a film
he said
be back and study then

the Bible bit
she bit her lip
still got no money
she said

looking back at him
standing there
in jeans and blue shirt  
and mucked up hair

I’ve got 2/6d
that’ll do for us to go
and ride and see
and ride on back

she hesitated
looked concerned
if I don’t know St Mark 9
there’ll be hell to pay

(strapped backside
more like he thought
but didn’t say)
we can scan the pages

once we’re back
and gulp it down
and swot it up
he said

she stared
at her plimsolls
white ankle socks
the stones

and bricks
of the bomb site ground
tempted she said
ok

wanting to go
and be with him
she weighed
the balance

in her mind
pushing possible
punishment to the back
of her mind

already he was walking
towards the bus stop
across the bombsite
in casual pace

she followed
taking his hand in hers
unaware her father
from the top

of a bus
had seen
and taking note
knowing what to say

and do
she being
with that kid again
the downstairs Jew.

Isolde looks from the window
of her old bedroom,
she's not been in there
since they took her
to the asylum years before.

Tristana, her lover,
is sitting on a white chair
on the lawn
talking to Isolde's mother.

Her mother has the same
pinched features,
thin lips as if drawn
across in ink,
the narrow nose,
peering eyes.

Isolde smells
the mustiness
of the room,
the curtains the same,
the wallpaper fading.
Her mother's eyes  
have a look
of fear in them.

Her sister sits
beside her mother
hawk-like,
hands on the arms
of the chair,
eyes fixed
with that steady stare.

Isolde recalls
the last time
in the room:
the night they
came for her,
men in white coats,
the ambulance waiting,
flashing lights,
voices shouting,
her sister crying,
her father ordering
this and that
(the prat).

Father's dead now,
good riddance,
she muses,
running a finger
down the pane of glass,
seeing her lover
sitting there,
gesturing with her hands,
head tilted to one side.

Not once
did her mother visit her
in the asylum,
not a word sent
or love or concern
expressed.

She sits on the bed,
the springs complain,
the bedspread
pushes out dust.

She remembers Tristana
that first time
in the asylum,
that first meeting,
the side ward,
the nurse dragging her
along the passage,
cursing, gripping
her nightgown.  

The fat nurse let her
drop by the bed;
Tristana sat on the floor
wide eyed,
opened mouthed.

Isolde had struck the nurse
with the flower vase,
smashed it,
flowers spread
across the floor.

The nurse's head bled.
Looked worse than it was.
She smiles.
They locked her up
for weeks for that,
saw none,
except the nurses
who fed
and bathed her
cruelly.

Worth it.
She moves on the bed,
the springs sing.

She gets up
and goes
to the window again.

Tristana is subdued now;
the mother is talking,
moving her hands in the air
as if learning to fly.

Her sister sits crossed legged,
hands on her knees.
Dumb expression.
The mother mouths words,
moves her head
to one side bird-like.

Isolde recalls
the first kiss
on Tristana's lips.
In the toilets
off the ward,
evening time,
overhead lights
flickering.

Lips meeting,
soft, wet,
eyes closed.

They slept in
Tristana's bed
in dead of night,
close for warmth,
hands holding,
bodies touching.

The mother looks up
at the window,
her eyes empty,
hollow dark holes.
She gestures to Isolde
to come down,
her thin hand
moving icily.

Isolde walks
from the window.
On the glass,
where she had breathed
breath to smear,
she had finger written,
Isolde's mind and soul
once died here.

All through science she has thought about him, scribbling his name on the palm of her hand, doodling his name on the inside cover of her exercise book. The teacher rattles on about chemicals, about combinations, of numbers, but Christina isn't listening, she's gazing out the window at the sports field over the way, there where she and Benedict go some lunch times if it's fine and she's not stuck in the girls playground watching other girls play at skip rope or other childish games or chatter. The weather looks fine, the sky blue, clouds sparse. Good. Be out there. He will be there, too. Miss him when he's not about. A piece of chalk whizzes by her head and the teacher calls her  name and to concentrate and not daydream. She turns to the front and picks up her pen and takes down the writing on the board. The teacher scowls, eyes like hawk's. She saw him at morning break in passing by the tuck shop. He gazed at her. Sent tingles through her. Watched until he was out of sight. She scribbles in the exercise book, writes down the script on the board. Last night she dreamed of him. Had his photo under her pillow. Her head inches away from him. She pretended he had come to her room at midnight(the parents were downstairs still) and stood by the door looking at her. She told him to come closer and he came and sat on her bed. Seemed so real. Mere inches away. Hand near mine, pretended to touch. The teacher talks on boringly, she writes faster. The other kids seem to focus, make effort, look up, write down. At breakfast her mother was in a mood. Dark mood day. Moaned about state of my bedroom. Clothes everywhere, she said, books, paper, I won't have it. Christina puts down her pen. Inky fingers, pen leaks. ****. She wipes on a tissue, rubs away. Still stained. The other day she held Benedict's hand palm upward and read his lines. Wanted to see how many children he'd have or his wife. Couldn't decide. Wasn't sure. She liked his hand in hers, his fingers, the smoothness, the skin on skin thing. They kissed briefly, other kids were watching, making silly sounds, comments. She thinks her twin brother says things about her to their mother, not out of spite or telltale, but innocently in chatter over the dinner table or by way of idle talk. Her mother invited Benedict to lunch one school day. Studied him, questioned him. One of her black mood days. She managed to take him to her room for a few moments while her mother was out and showed him her bed and her doll collection and such and kissed quickly until they heard her mother's return. The lesson will soon be over. She cannot wait. Bored titless. She closes her exercise book and puts the cap on her pen and stares at the teacher as she finishes her talk. Her big brother has books under his bed. She saw one the other week while looking for his record player to borrow. Magazines of naked women. Piles stacked neatly. She removed one and opened the pages. She stopped at a page where a woman was kneeling dog like. A man was there ,too. She blushed, closed the magazine, shoved it back under the bed and went out of the room and to her own room. What the hell was that all about? She tried to push it from her mind. Her big brother had touched her in her room and she said nothing. The magazines were still there, she supposes, watching the teacher answer questions of those who were interested or pretended they were to get in the teacher's good books.  Hands rose in the air by those with questions of science. Christina ponders a question:  why do some women kneel dog like? She doesn't ask. Imagines the teacher's face, giggles from other kids. Best not to. The biology teacher was best to ask. But he will probably blush. So would she. She wishes time would fly. The sky is still blue. Clouds drift lazily. Her big brother lifted her skirt under the dinning room table and touched her leg. She said nothing, but stiffened, he smiled. Mother moaned about my untidy room, the ***** clothes under the bed, put in the wash basket, she went on. A bell rings from the passage, lesson over, thank God, she thinks, shoving her books in her bag. She goes to the washroom and enters a cubicle. The fingers are still ink stained. Benedict's name is written small there on her palm. She kisses her palm. She remembers the first time she saw him. He was new to the school, came just before Christmas. He stood in the assembly hall in a year above hers. His sister was in her class. They talked about him. She introduced him to her one lunch time on the sports field. They talked shyly, sat near, didn't touch, uneasy the first time. She left the cubicle, washed her hands, scrubbed her fingers with the white soap. Cleaner, still slightly stained. Try again later. She leaves the wash room and goes along the passage  hoping to see him. Crowds of kids pass by. A boy and girl by the gym door smooch, his hand on her thigh, her hand on his neck. But no Benedict. She stares about her. No. Not about. She moves towards the next lesson, maths, double, time passes, boring, wants to see him. The bell rings, next lesson, his sister walks beside her, not him, o if it was him, if only.  The passageway is dull, her life seems dim.

You walked back
from the shops
through the Square
having shopped

for your mother
Helen beside you
helping to carry
the heavy bags

her doll Battered Betty
in her free hand
Helen dressed
in her dark blue raincoat

and hood
her thick lens spectacles
smeared by the light rain
her brown shoes

letting in water
you in your black raincoat
buttoned up to the neck
your black shoes

treading through puddles
you climbed the stairs
to your flat
on the fourth floor

and along the balcony
and went in
through the front door
and put the shopping bags

on the kitchen floor
you look like drowned rats
your mother said
best get out

of those wet coats
or you'll catch your deaths
and so you took off
the raincoats

and she gave you
a towel each
to dry off
in front

of the living room fire
Helen took off
her spectacles
and wiped them

on the hem
of her green flowered dress
I must look a mess
she said

the boys at school
call me Dracula's sister
they can say what they like
you said

to me you're my Maid Marian
to my Robin Hood
besides they couldn't
understand beauty

if it crept up
and pinch their bums
she laughed
and wiped

her frizzy
dark brown hair
on the white towel
you dried your hair

and face
and took in
her lost girl look
her spectacles

on the dinning room table
her hair
all over the place
her squinting eyes

I can take you
to the cinema
if you like
this afternoon

you said
there's a Cavalier
and Roundheads film on
with plenty of sword fights

I'll have to ask my mum
Helen said
I expect she'll say yes
especially if I'm going

with you
I think she'd trying
to me marry me off with you
even if we're only 8

she rubbed her hair quickly
then put the towel
on the chair with yours
Battered Betty her doll

was sitting on the floor
by the fire place
looking sorry for herself
Helen picked the doll up

in her arms
and you both looked
out the window
at the coal wharf

across the road
and the lorries
and horse drawn coal carts
coming and going

when we're married
Helen said
we can live in a castle
and look out

from the battlements
over the countryside
and I can have pretty girls
and you can train our sons

to be knights
yes
you said
and ride horses

and have sword fights
with the bad knights
and you showed her
the blue bladed sword

your old man made for you
at his workplace
and you showed her
your sword fighting skills  

afterwards she said
I best get home
or mum will wonder
where I've got to

ok
you said
let me know
if you can go

to the cinema
and tell your mum
I've got the money
for tickets

and an ice cream
ok
she said
and put on her

still damp raincoat
and kissed
your cheek wetly
and went out and off

along the balcony
and down the stairs
(the rain had stopped)
and you watched her go

through the Square
and down the *****
and out of sight
she your Maid Marian

you
her shining knight.

I am a holder of dolls,
said Monica,
I keep them in my arms
in light and dark,
I sleep with one
in my bed at night,
her fuzzy hair
tickles my face,
my dreams are of
my mother's cries,
her anguish over
the men who come.

I am the bearer
of her smacks,
her voice vibrates
in my ears,
her hand marks
colour my skin.

My window looks out
on fish shop below,
the baker's shop
on the left,
on narrow
Meadow Row,
the bomb sites
on either side.

My mother's men
come and go,
they make her
laugh or cry,
they sleep beside her
in her double bed,
I hear their voices
in the dark,
the sounds of giggles
or weeping,
the slapping of hands
on flesh,
the darkness brings me
bogeymen and shadows.

One of the men,
crept to my bed,
removed my doll,
touched my leg,
lifted my nightdress,
our little secret
he whispered to me,
the darkness swallowed him
up, the dirtiness left
in his wake.

I am the sleeper
of light sleep,
I listen for the sound
of creeping feet,
for the door **** to move ,
for the door to open,
for the hands to touch,
for the secrets kept.

From my window I see
the children at play
on the grass below,
with toy guns,
bows and arrows,
dolls and prams,
they look for me
to join in,
to enter their games,
the boys seek me
as their cowgirl moll,
they ride their invisible
horses across the plains,
shooting out
their cowboy dreams.

I watch the sky darken,
the moon a silver coin,
the clouds
puffs of smoke,
my mother
calls me to meals,
the table and chairs,
old and stained,
her man friend
drinks and smokes,
makes silly remarks,
***** jokes,
me he pinches
(under the table)
or secretly pokes.

I am the holder of dolls,
they are my true companions,
they never complain,
they share my dreams,
they share my pains.

From my window
I see Benedict play,
he alone knows
of my plight,
he my knight
in cowboy shirt
and jeans,
my teller of tales,
my listener of woes,
he buys me
sweets or chips
after our games,
walks me home
with his 6 shooter gun
resting in the holster
by the side of his leg,
his cowboy hat
slanted to one side.

He keeps my secrets,
holds my hand
over busy roads,
eyes the men
my mother brings home,
guns them down
in our shared dreams.

I kiss his cheek
as a kind of thanks,
he blows me a kiss
from his open palm
as he rides
the bomb site plains,
he knows my fears
of the men
and my mother's smacks
and the pains,
he stares at my mother
with his hazel eyes,
his steady stare,
he alone likes me,
he alone is there.

Shamira had just left work
she was going to Florence
for the week with friends
and Baruch after seeing her go

opened up her locker door
and took out
her light blue
nursing overall

and held it to his cheek
then smelt it
tried to sense her perfume
feel her presence still there

the warmth of her body lingering
he found light brown hair
on the collar
and carefully detached it

and twiddled it around
between fingers
and held it up
to the light

then placed it
in a white tissue
and put it in his pocket
and put the nursing overall

away in the locker
and leaned
against the wall
thinking of her just gone

and not to see her again
for a week
not to hear her voice
or see her eyes

or feel her nearness
that evening he went
to the public bar
she frequented

and sat drinking alone
conjuring up
where she used to sit
and imagined

seeing her near by
or at the table
across the room
listening to the piped music

feeling the loneliness
creep in
so went home
and wrapped

the strand of hair
and put it in a small box
and let it lay there  
a small part of her

near by
a tiny particle
of what she was there
light brown hair

the following week
he wrote her
a letter every day
and posted it

to her home address
even though he knew
she was away in Florence
telling her how much

he loved her
and missed her
and when she returned
how they could go out

and where
and each day the letter
told more
and released more feelings

and when he rang her
the day she returned home
she said
I never expected

so many letters
or such feelings
and she talked of Florence
and where she'd been

and what she saw
and with whom
and what they did
and o

she said
I've got you
this postcard
and you'll love it

and so she went on
and he listening
on the phone
just wanted her

to be there
and have her all alone.

Mrs Wren said
she'd have her husband back
if she could
but the guy was just

too wrapped up
in himself
and even though he thinks
the world of his kid

he thinks of other things
or others more
like that time
when he promised to come

to the kid's birthday party
and didn't show
o
he said  

I had some one come call
and I didn't want to send
them away
(woman probably

the one he has at the office
who cleavage is to die for)
and that other time
when he said he'd

have the kid
while I had a trip
with the girls out
but no at the last minute

he doesn't show
it's all I had the flu
or I had one of my heads
(more like

the ***** turned up)
and I had to stay at home
while the girls went
and had a good time

or that other time
when he said I
was the most important person
in his life

and wanted me
as his wife
then he goes off
with a smooth talking

wiggly *** girl
with her own car
and only after
he'd got as far

as he could with her
did he return tail
( or something)
between his legs

and flowers
and chocs
and o so sorry honey
I had her all wrong

it's you who mean
the most to me
or that time
when we were on

our honeymoon
( the kid conceived
that time)
and walking arm in arm

along the beach
him spewing
all the words
the romantic stuff

but eyeing all the girls
taking in their bikinis
or their shapeliness
and one even came up

and had the nerve
to chat him up
while I stood there
giving her the glare

and he o so Mr Cool
forgetting me standing
like a fool
or that afternoon

I found him in our bed
with that woman upstairs
the one who borrowed
the sugar each week

and all he said was
you know me honey
I'm weak
I can't resist the eyes

but there you go
Mrs Wren said
I love him so
despite the lies.