Summer recess had come
and she sat with you
out in the field
over looking her house

and the railway
was not far off
where the occasional train
puffed by sending

a sprouting of white smoke
as it went by
and she looked at it passing
and spoke of after school days

when she would begin
her adult life and settle down
and have children
but you were thinking

of a train trip with your parents
years before
to some seaside place
and you watched

the scenery go by
and the steam go by
the window
and the smell

and the sight excited you
and stuck itself
inside your head
and Judith said

what do you think?
and you said
about what?
and she said

about children's names?
what names
would you choose?
your brain struggled

to the surface
and whirled through
a list of names
that came to mind

boy or girl?
you asked
she sighed
either

haven't you been
listening to me?
sorry got distracted
by the train smoke

had a Proustian moment
you said
a what?
she said

a Proustian moment
you replied
what the heck is that?
she said

pulling her skirt
over her knees
where it had risen up
as she moved  

Marcel Proust wrote
that eating a certain cake
took him back
to a certain moment

of his life
but you
haven't been eating cake
Judith said

her hand rested
on her knees
her eyes focusing on you
no it's just an example

you said
about how things
can remind you
of other things

or places or times
do you recall
the first time we kissed?
she asked

yes
you said
of course I do
it was near Christmas

and we were carol singing
and it was dark
and the moon was out
and the stars were bright

and your lips pressed
onto mine
ok ok
she said laughing

at least you remember
and as she moved forward
the buttons
of her white blouse

parted briefly
to reveal a hint
of fleshy *******
so what names

do you like?
she asked
none come to mind
you said

she shook her head
what about Rachel or David?
she said
fine

you said
nice religious names
although David
brings to mind

a kid with a catapult
and a girl I once knew
with buckteeth who smelt
of old socks

she looked skywards
and sighed
and lay back
on to the grass

and you lay beside her
both of you  
gazing up
at the expanse

of blue and white
her hand reaching out
for yours
in that one moment

of life
in the great
out of doors.

Benedict sat in a pew
of the old church
while Jane arranged flowers
up at the altar end
with an older woman.

The church smelt of flowers
and damp and age.
Sunlight poured through
the coloured glass windows.

He sat and watched Jane
sort the vase, her fingers nimble,
her body slim, reaching up
to the take down vases,
the sunlight catching
her movements.

Jane’s mother had told him
she was in the church
when he called
at the vicarage.
She won’t be long,
her mother had said.

He sniffed the air.
It had a churchy smell.
She arranged flowers with care,
her fingers patting into place,
her arms in constant motion.

The other woman
having completed her tasks
left the church.
Jane came and sat beside him.
Looks good doesn’t it, she said.
Yes it does, he said.

She smelt of fresh apples,
he thought of orchards,
sunlight, warm days.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek,
her lips moist, warm.
He put his hand on her thigh,
sensed the pulse of her.

Let’s go out in the daylight, she said.
They walked out of the church
and along the path to the lane
hand in hand.
I’ve just go to go home
for a minute for something,
she said and he followed her
to the vicarage
and waited outside.

After a few minutes she was out
and they walked along the lane.
The hedgerows were brimming with birds,
their songs and chatter filled the air.

It was never like this in London,
he said. Never this freshness,
never nature so near and alive.
I’ve only known this, she said,
this countryside, the small local town,
the cows and fields, the open sky.

Must seem odd to you the contrast.
He looked at her; her hair dark
and free from constraints,
her eyes dark, catching sunlight.

Yes, it is, he said, like escaping Hell
and finding paradise. She smiled.
With or without me? she said.
You’re the icing on the cake,
the angel that makes
it all seem worthwhile. She laughed.
You have such a way with words.

They passed the water tower;
cows mooed in a nearby field.
She put her arm around his waist
and kissed his neck. They stopped
in the lane. Momentarily it seemed
as if the birds had ceased to sing
or chatter; as if the sky had exploded
with colour. He kissed her and held her.

Their 13 year old lips met.
This was paradise, he thought,
nothing else could matter.

Fay sat with Benedict
on the grass outside
Banks House. He wore
his faded blue jeans,

white tee shirt; she
wore a lemon dress
(one he liked) with
small white flowers.

It was warm, a summery
sun was in the sky,
trains moved over
the railway bridge

just over the way.
She talked of a nun
at her school, who
was strict and carried

a ruler around to hit
the hands of girls who
spoke out of turn.
Benedict sat cleaning up

his six-shooter toy gun,
wiping his handkerchief
over the silvery barrel.
Girls live in fear of her,

Fay said, she creeps behind
them and pokes her
finger into their flesh.
Have a teacher at my school

who pokes with a pencil,
Benedict said, digs it right in,
especially when he’s making
a point about something.

Fay’s eyes caught the sun’s light;
he thought he could see angel’s
playing there. She caught me
over my knuckles last week, Fay said.

Did you tell your parents? he asked.
God no, she said. Daddy would
have beaten me for sure; upsetting
nuns and such. O, he said, he loved

the way her fair hair shone in sunlight,
the way she moved her lips to form words.
He put his gun back in the holster
(the one his old man had given him)

around his shoulder. She spoke of
the mass and the priest who came.
Benedict didn’t know what the heck
the mass was, but he just listened to

her talk, watched her lips make words
like some potter makes bowls.
He studied her hands as she spoke,
how they gestured along with the words;

small hands, thin fingers. He couldn’t
understand how anyone could want
to slam a ruler over such thin knuckles.
She spoke of the Host and that it was Jesus

in the form of bread. He was stumped,
but listened on, taking in her every word,
the sound of the word, the way she
shaped it, the way her tongue seemed

to hold then throw out the word.
Then she stopped and pulled off her
yellow cardigan because of the heat.
He saw on her upper arm, a fading

green bruise, like damaged fruit gone off.
She put the cardigan on the grass,
and talked on about confessions,
about the confessional, how dark it was,

how the priest was hardly
visible through the metal mesh.
Benedict half listened; too concerned
about her bruised fruit flesh.

Benedict wheeled Anne
out the back gate
of the nursing home.

The sea was calm,
the tide was out.
He pushed her wheelchair
along the path by the beach.

He could smell the salt
in the air, the mild breeze
through his well kempt hair.

She sat with her hands in her lap;
she wore a blue skirt, her one
leg showed from knee down.  

You’re not a very exciting pusher
of wheelchairs are you, she said.
My old gran could push me quicker.

I don’t want you falling out, Benedict said.
Don’t be a ******* ****, Kid,
push me; I want the air in my face,
the wind up my nose, she said,
grabbing the arms of the chair
and shaking them. So he pushed
her quicker, his puny arms giving
it all they could, his legs like frail
pistons moving quickly onward.

That’s it, she bellowed, faster,
faster, Kid, get those lazy legs
of yours ****** moving.  

He pushed harder and gathered
speed, his hands holding on
to the handlebars for dear life.

They had covered a good distance
in a short time and he had to take
a break for breath. What’s a matter
got a puncture? she said. No, he said,
out of breath. Well ****** rest then, Kid.

He turned the wheelchair round
to face the sea. Then stood beside
her looking out at the horizon.
The blue sky, grey clouds, gulls
in the air. This is the life, Kid, she
bellowed This is ******* living.

He said nothing; her language
stung his ears. His mother would
have washed his mouth out
with soap for saying such.

There were people on the sands;
some in deckchairs, some standing
gazing out to sea; kids with buckets
and spades making sand castles,
some swimming, some throwing
a ball to each other. Look at that fat ****
over there with her swimsuit on,
Anne said, pointing to a woman
standing with a man on the sea’s edge,
bet they had to pour her into that,
she added. Benedict said nothing.

He looked down at Anne’s one leg
sticking out of her blue skirt.
She looked up at him. Help me up
and out, she said. He took her hands
and pulled her upwards and she
swayed slightly, but then managed
to stand ***** on her one leg,
the wheelchair behind her.

Should have brought my ******
crutches, she said. Sorry, he said,
didn’t know you wanted to get out.
You’ll just have to hold me up then
won’t you, she said. She put her right
arm around his shoulder and he let go
of her hands. There we go; you can be
my crutch, she said. He could feel her
arm about his shoulder, her weight on him.

You’re a good mate, Kid, she said.
She kissed his cheek. None of those
nursing sister would have wheeled me
out along here not for all the ******
rosaries in Rome, she said. He smiled.

He could feel the damp patch of skin
where her lips had been. They stood
gazing out at the sea together, she swayed
slightly on her one leg, he sensed her
nearness; wanting to be stronger,
he stood firmer, his feet planted deeper
in the sand. Then he sensed her stump
beneath her skirt, rub gently against his hand.

The day after
Janice’s gran
had taken you
to see the film

The Ten Commandments
you had gone with Janice
to Jail Park
to ride the swings

and she talked of the film
and the parting
of the Red Sea
and the drowning

of the Pharaoh’s men
and the horses
and the writing
on the two tablets

of stone
shame the horses
had to drown too
she said

they hadn’t done
anything wrong
it’s a matter of being
in the wrong place

at the wrong time
you said
but those poor horses
they didn’t ask

to be the Pharaoh’s horses
you swung high
on the swing
your feet reaching up

towards the sky
Janice was beside you
she wasn’t swinging so high
and those poor slaves

she added pushing
her swing higher
by moving her legs
and arms

why were there slaves?
why can’t people
be nice to each other?
I can imagine Cogan

in my class
being a bit of a pharaoh
given the chance
the fat ***

you said
maybe he’s not
treated right at home
she said

maybe that’s why
he’s like that
no he’s just a prat
you said

who likes to bully
other kids
does he bully you?
she asked

he promises
to smash my face in
but when I waited
for him the other day

after school
he didn’t show
you said
my gran said

to be kind to people
and try to see
their better side
Janice said

I do try
you said
but his ugly dial
gets in the way

and she laughed
and said
we mustn’t laugh
it’s a shame when people

have to bully others
I’m sure he’s got
a good side
your feet were now

almost touching
the sky’s rim
well if he has
he must keep it

in his pants
you said
she smiled
and shook her head

her brown sandals
and white socks
seemed to scrape
the sky’s skin

but gran said
Janice almost sang
that none of us
is free of sin

and her voice drifted off
into the blue
just the two swings
on that Monday morning

and Janice
and you.

Under the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street,
Benedict met his cousin
who said: your mum’s home
with your twin sisters,
best get home quick.

So he did and when he
got to the flat where
they lived he found
his mother holding
one of the babies
in an armchair,
breast feeding her.

His mother said his
other sister was in
the cot in her bedroom.

He entered the bedroom quietly.
He approached the cot
and looked over. There she was
his youngest sister, asleep.

Now he had to share
his mother with two more;
his other sister and brother
and he made five.
A five way split.
Less shares.

But not necessarily
less love or attention.
His mother had
a unique way
of stretching love
and attention
like a magican.

He smiled down
at the baby, touched
the dark curly hair
with a finger.
The baby stirred.
He withdrew his finger
and stood and stared.

After a few minutes
he returned to his mother
and the other sister.
The other baby was plumper,
more rounded,
chubby cheeks and such.

His mother looked tired,
drained. He hadn’t seen her
for a few weeks, except
short hospital visits, once
he remembered he stood
outside in the evening air,
staring up at the sky
with moon and stars.

His mother laid the baby
in the cot with the other.
They lay there together
in separate sleeps,
occupying their own
new dreams, hands
tight in tiny fists.

He watched while his mother
went off to prepare tea.
After a short while he left
the room and drew
the door shut
with a gentle click.

One hand on the door,
the other on the handle,
drawn towards him
did the trick.

Helen walked down
the steps of St Jude’s school
her mum was waiting for her
with the big pram

you were by the school gates
are you coming back with us?
Helen said
ok

you said
and so you
and Helen
and her mum

walked along
St George’s Road
her mother talking
about the shopping

she’d done
and what she’d bought
Helen walking alongside
you thinking of Cogan

and him saying
he was going to
smash your face
but he didn’t of course

he was all mouth
but even if you had to
fight him you had to
be careful of his glasses

never hit someone
with glasses your mother
used to say
but if you had to

you would of course
can you come to tea?
Helen asked
you looked at her mum

pushing the pram
if it’s all right
with your mum
you said

it’s fine
her mother said
as long as you
don’t expect caviar

and she laughed
and you wondered
what caviar was
but smiled anyway

and once you got
to Helen’s house
you said
will my mum know

where I am?
yes I told her
you’d come with us
for tea this morning

Helen’s mum said
that’s good isn’t it
Helen said
and she took you

into the sitting room
and you sat
on the big brown settee
and she sat beside you

and told you
about the boy
in her class
who said she looked

like a toad with glasses
I don’t do I?
she said
not at all

you said
you’re pretty
you added
beginning to blush

do I?
she said
yes
you said

and she kissed
your cheek
and you patted her
on the back

and she went off
to the kitchen
where her mum
was getting tea

and you heard her say
Benedict said I was pretty
that’s nice
her mother said

now ask Benedict
if he wants bread and jam
or bread and dripping
and you saw Helen’s

old doll Battered Betty
on an armchair
by the fireplace
staring at you

with that smile
on its face.

Mrs Dryden
met Benedict
by the train station;
she’d told her husband

she was off
the weekend
seeing friends,
in London

take in a show,
which one
she didn’t know.  
Benedict saw her coming,

dressed to the nines,
hair done, new shoes
and coat and scarf,
to keep the cold out,

about her throat.
They boarded the train,
took seats together,
aware of others,

but none they knew.
They conversed,
held hands, kissed
now and then

when none was looking.
London was all bright lights
and noise and rush
and they booked a room

in a back street hotel
where they made love,
took a bath, and then went out.
The show was good.

The meal in the restaurant
was fine and they spent time
wandering the streets
looking in shop windows

on the back
to the cheap hotel.
She talked of her husband,
her kids, and how

her husband ******* girls
behind her back,
how he lied,
gave ******* talk,

imagined himself
some Casanova.
Benedict listened,
spoke of his art,

talked of books,
ideas of philosophy.
She put her hand
over his abdomen,

rubbed, rose higher
to his chest, then lower.
In the dark room,
neon lights

flashed off and on,
her face came
and went, her *******
captured coloured

in the flashing lights.
They made love again
and again. Outside was
a gun shot quite near.

Voices calling. Some
one laughed. After the ***
and conversation,
after putting coins

in the heater,
they bathed.

Miss Cleves
(she dropped
the Mrs. when
her husband left)

stood by the doorframe
of the lounge,
dressed
in a flowery kimono,

which revealed more
than it concealed.
***** wants some milk,
she said.

Benedict looked around
at her from the sofa.
Percy will oblige
after his drink is drunk,

he said. Chopin’s
concerto no 2 oozed
from the hifi. He drained
his drink and followed her

into her bedroom.
Once Percy had obliged
and ***** been fed,
they lay abed.

She criticizing
his Marxism,
he her Scottish
conservatism;

she talked
of her husband’s betrayal
and ***
with air hostess

trollops,
Benedict half-listened
taking in
the ending

of the Chopin.
She talked of the poor
and the slums saying:
you can take

the poor out
of the slums,
but you can’t always take
the slums out

of the poor.
He raved
about the rich,
she scorned

the poor;
he talked revolution,
he pointed out Stalin
and Mao and the altars

of blood they brought.
Another drink? she asked.
He said yes
and she went off

to pour. He lay naked
on her bed wondering
what the priest would think
of him lying there

**** naked. He heard
the Chopin begin again;
she had thought of that.
Time to prepare, he thought,
once more to feed the cat.

Benedict turned the page
of the Dostoyevsky novel.

His brother puked in the bidet,
too much cheap wine,
Benedict thought,
but he’ll be fine.

He immersed himself deeper
into the Russian world
of ****** and fear
and dark corners.

Crime and Punishment
was one good tale all right.
Even the book cover held
the attention, he thought,
turning it briefly over.

His brother’s moans
interrupted the puking.
Benedict asked an
are you all right?
There was a groan
of response.

Benedict recalled the time
he had been in that condition
in Yugoslavia the year before,
same cause: too much
cheap wine.
And that beautiful guide
came to his room
to see how he was
and sat on his bed
and all he could think of
was when would
the puking end.

No thought at all
of her presence there,
her body so close,
her perfume making him
more nauseous.

She was Croatian,
he thought, pausing at the page
of the Dostoyevskian novel.

And that waitress
he and his brother had liked
in the restaurant
at the Yugoslavian hotel.

*****. Yes, that was the name.
Got no where though.
Just the luck of the draw.

His brother returned
from the bathroom
and flopped on the bed.

The puking over maybe,
Benedict thought
and his brother hoped,
pale of complexion,
perspiration on brow.

Outside the window
the Parisian streets
echoed with life:
Cars, coaches, buses,
people, natives, tourists,
males and females.

Tomorrow they’d be out
on the streets again.
Sit in restaurants where
the famous once sat
over coffee or beer:
Hemmingway, Sartre,
Picasso, Henry Miller
and the others.

Art thrived here.
Ideas born
from philosophic minds.

Benedict book marked
the page and closed
the book and put it aside.

Some one laughed outside
in the street, another sang,
voices of ghostly singers
of the past, breathed
from the walls.

His brother returned
to the bathroom,
more puking.
Benedict thought:
poor brother.
Of course, he mused,
gazing at the Parisian
night sky, they’d never
tell their mother.

Sure
he had it all in mind
the way he was going
to approach her

how he was going
to get the date
fixed up and maybe
other things along

the line if he caught
her right but Hogdig
got it wrong
right from the start

she wasn't into men at all
she preferred her own kind
of the same gender
but at least he tried

and came out
with the usual spiel
gave the usual
****** expressions

gestures of hands
and smiles and all
but the dame didn't fall
she had her own agenda

and he wasn't it
not one bit
so Hogdig having got
the message loud and clear

( still ringing in his ear)
he apologised said he
didn't realize (hard to tell
he thought with that type)

and went on his way
(hoping against hope)
he'd get it right one day
but don't hold your breath

he said to himself
in the usual way he had
with his internal dialogue
an internal debate

going on for some hours
until quite late
all so one day
he'd get himself

(hopefully with a
good looking dame)
a night out
and a date.

Benedict knew
Miss Croft
was out of his league;
she was everything

he wasn’t: upper
middle class,
well spoken,
well dressed;

had a nice face,
nice ***. The mere
thought she’d have
anything to do with him

was a joke. But he
wouldn’t have minded
a poke; his pecker
would have obliged,

he thought. Nonetheless,
he knew reality when
it came, knew he was out
of the game, so became

content just to talk
and joke and laugh
and forgot all about
the poke, least for real,

in dreams a guy can
do whatever wants
or desires: create or
destroy worlds with fires,

make the perfect art,
sleep with whosoever,
become a saint;
dreams allow such things.

But reality holds in check;
but one does what one can,
he thought, and keeps what
reality brings. She was the

out of your league type;
he could have sworn she
had it tattooed on her ***,
highlighted on her passport.

He would have been just
a nice guy to her; have given
her what he could have afforded;
read better books, listened

to highbrow music, spoken
with a plum in his mouth
if it did the job, but he couldn’t
make the grade, didn’t have

the right tone in speaking.
He knew one couldn’t always
get what one wanted
or was ever seeking.

Benedict watched Christine;
she was applying lipstick
to her lips, gazing at herself
in the bathroom mirror.

She mouthed her lips together
as he had seen his mother
do many times as a child
to spread the lipstick evenly.

That looks better, he said.
She eyed in him in the mirror.
Least I can do to make myself
liveable again. He smiled.

Her hair was brushed, not
messed up as was per norm.

Maybe you’ll be ready to get
out of the locked ward soon,
he said. She lowered her eyes.

Brushing hair and applying
lipstick doesn’t mean I can
forget that *******, she said.

Still have problems inside
my head. Maybe they’ll stop
the ECTs, he said, give you
pills or such. She pushed
the lipstick in her dressing
gown pocket, walked out
of the bathroom on naked feet.

He followed her to the window
of the lounge where other
patients sat or stood and
peered out at the snow.

I want to be out there,
feel that coldness, that air,
that biting chill, want to be
alive, want to feel, she said.

Benedict smelt the scent
of old soap, sensed her fingers
touching along his arm, her
breath made mist upon the glass.

They can stick their ECTs,
she muttered, they do nothing
for me except mess with my head.

He allowed her finger to run
down his skin, to move about
his wrist, smooth the scar where
a blade once ran, touch his
lips waiting again to be kissed.

The music from the base camp
a few miles from Tangiers
could still be heard
from the beach

where you
and Mamie
lay looking out
at he sea and moon

she spoke
of romantic things
her parents
her job

her hopes
you listened
looked at her there
her eyes capturing

moonlight
her hair
her lips moving words
her hands

about your waist
yours on her back
and thigh
some one laughed

from the base camp
more cheering
clapping
music coming

and going in waves
caught by a slight wind  
Mamie became silent
and kissed you

her lips on yours
pressing on
her tongue entering
her hands over you

she closed her eyes
sea sound
wind touching skin
voices from the base camp

a guitar sound
voices singing
she *******
(what was left

to undress)
you moving in
smell of sea
and scent

taste on lips
and tongue
gin and shish kebabs
darkness closing in

moonlight and stars
and her kisses
moving to your neck
and cheek

and you sensing
her warmth
her nearness
skin on skin

tough grass
by beach sands
voice calling
laughter

Mamie wordless
just sounds
and breath
and you feeling

her flesh
the fingers moving
sea waves
coming in

shush of the sea
passions high
distant sounds
guitar and laughter

and singing
riding the waves
you and she
and the god almighty
rough moving sea.

Whether George loved Alice,
Benedict didn’t know,
but Alice loved George,
she let it show.

Benedict saw the way
she looked when George
came in the room
or if she spotted him
along the passage,
she’d flushed and gawk
at him like some spotty
schoolgirl (though she
must have been near 70
if a day) and pat down
her grey skirt or mauve
flowered dress and make
sure, without mirror, her
hair was not a mess.

Benedict watched George,
poor of sight and bent slight,
enter the dinning hall
and make straight
for his chair and table,
sit down and fiddle
with the cutlery,
gaze at his face
in the back of a spoon
(though God knows
what he saw with eyes
like his, except blur),
while across the way
Alice would stand,
and girl like, swoon.

Benedict saw Alice
once or twice, when
courage allowed,
stand behind George’s chair
and with fingers twiddle his hair.

George blushed at this,
looked straight ahead,
sensing Alice’s hands
about his neck
in soft embrace,
her lips near,
wanting to kiss,
touched his face.

Benedict guessed
she never ventured
to George’s room or bed,
least not for real,
but maybe in dreams
or in some loving corner
of her aging head.

Whether George
loved Alice,
Benedict couldn’t say,
but he hoped George did
in his own odd way.

Benedict's mother
stood by the twin tub
washing machine
lifting the steaming wash
from the washer
to the spinner
with wooden tongs,
her eyes focused,
her arm straining.

He watched her;
a book, Plato's Republic,
lay open
on the table
by his hand.

He studied
the red hands,
the worn fingers,
how she wiped the wet
from her forehead
with the back
of her hand.

Plato’s Philosopher Kings
seemed too hard
for his delicate mind
at that stage,
the Greek world
too far off
in the past
to give him comfort.

Maybe you ought
to read something lighter,
his mother said,
pushing down
the washing
with the end
of the tongs.

Find it hard to read
at all at present,
he said,
everything’s
an effort.

Making the effort
is part of the effort,
she said.

You don’t want to be
in the hospital again,
do you?

He closed up
the Plato book.

He wondered
how Julie was.
He’d not seen her
for months.

Good job too
his mother
would have said
if she had known
about her.

No, he said,
not there again.

His mother spun
the washing,
the noise ratted
the machine.

He rose from the table
and walked down
the passage way.
The machine rattled still.

He went in the back room
and put Miles Davis
on the hifi.
The muted horn,
the saxophone weaving,
the drummer
keeping pace,
jazz on a highway,
he closed his eyes,
head full of darkness,
breath full of sighs.

Benedict met Julie
(the druggie
and whatever
else she was)
circa 1967
at the foot
of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square.

She was dressed
in a mini skirt,
tight top, her hair up.

He dressed in his red shirt,
pink slacks, black shoes,
smiled as he approached.

Never guess how many times
I've been chatted up
as a *****, she said,
since I've been
standing here.

Guess you
put them right,
he said.

Do I look
like a *****?
she asked.

No, of course not,
he said, taking in
her mini skirt,
the tight top,
the pressing out ****.

She sighed.
Anyway you're here,
where now? She asked.

The gallery? He said,
indicating the National
Portrait Gallery behind.

I need a drink, she said.
Are you allowed
with the medication
you're on?
Since when
did you become
my father? She said.

He looked at the people
round about, the pigeon feeders,
the meeting of lovers,
visitors from some
foreign shores,
middle class,  
up your *** bores.

Ok, he said, let's go
have that drink,
then take in a gallery
or cinema.

I feel a need
to make a hit,
she said.

They only let you
out of the hospital
because they think
you can be trusted,
he said.

Then they shouldn't
trust me should they,
she said.

But they do.
It's up to you,
but I'm not
sticking around
if you go back
down that alley,
he said. I said
I felt a need,
didn't say
I was going to,
she muttered.

She moved away
from the Column;
he followed, through
the Square, pass
the people and pigeons,
the kids and parents.

He gazed at her ***
as she moved ahead,
the sway of it,
the thighs, sans
stockings, her feet  
with sandals,
treading the ground.

She stopped at the edge
of the road; he stood
beside her, took her hand,
felt her warmth.

They found a bar
in Leicester Square.
Ordered drinks, sat down,
lit cigarettes, smoked.

Guess who I met
the other week?
He asked.

Who? she asked.
Charles Lloyd,
he said.

Who's he? she asked.
Jazz sax-player.
Met him outside
Dobell’s' record shop
in Charing Cross Road.

Is he famous? She asked.
Sure he is. I got him
to autograph my copy
of his latest LP,
Benedict said.

What did he say?
She asked.
Sure man he said
and scribbled on
the back cover.

She looked out
of the window;
took a long drag
of her cigarette.

He watched her profile,
the lips holding
the cigarette,
the puffing out
of smoke.
Thinking of her
in the hospital ward,
the white dressing gown,
the skippered feet,
that time they made love
in that small room
off the ward.

Another drink?
She said.
Sure, he said,
and ordered two more.

Some place inside her head
a wild wave of need
swept up the empty shore.

His uncle **** asked Benedict
if he would mow the lawn
of the old lady at the cottage,
which he did, then clean out
the cowsheds at the farm,
which he did, then take some eggs
to the local shop, which he did.

It was a hot day, he felt a thirst
so went to pub called the Battleaxe
and ordered a pint and sat and drank
it slow outside in the sun. He thought
of the clarinet he'd brought with him,
the jazz he played in the front lounge,
which his aunt Eileen said was very good.

Do you still have and play your accordion?
he asked her. No, she said not now;
I've not played for years. He remembered
her playing and singing Goodnight Irene
on it when he had stayed as a kid.

Long ago now, he thought, finishing his pint.
He also mused on his recent visited
to see the MJQ in the City and afterwards
he met the band on the coach at the back.
Asked questions, got autographs.

Then another visit to the City with his
two cousins to watch them do their martial arts
and afterwards showed them judo moves
he and his friends had done a few years before.

He took his empty glass to the counter
of the pub and walked out in the sunshine
wondering what his uncle **** would have
lined up for him next. There was talk of
digging trenches in the churchyard some
evening to lay pipes to the church and there
was that mowing of the grass he'd been
shown the other day. Yes, he'd do that now,
he thought, while the sun was out, the grass dry.

The mower was in a shed at the back, one
of those modern jobs, less work, less elbow grease,
less sweat. But also, those peas to pick
and shuck for his aunt. He wasn't done with his
chores for his keep, for six weeks, least not yet.

Martha was shown
into a parlour
inside the front door
of the mother house

by a plump nun
in black and white
who looked like a penguin
out for a stroll

wait in there
she said
someone
will fetch you

in time
so Martha looked around
the room at the plain
white walls

the heavy curtains
at the windows
the huge crucifix
on the wall opposite

whose plaster Christ
seemed battered
an aged
the plaster had lines

and cracks
on the legs
and arms
and the hands

were contorted
like a crab
on its back
with rusty nails

holding them in place
she moved nearer
and reached up a hand
so that her fingers

could touch the feet
of Christ and run
them over the toes
and feel the nail

going through the feet
she rubbed her fingers there
she used to rub the crucifix
in her grandmother's house

the big one over
the double bed
and if she stood
on the bed

she could reach right up
to touch the face
and beard
and see if she could

hear Him breathe
or if she reached
really high
she could feel His nose

which on her grandmother's
Christ the nose seemed broken
and her grandmother said
that was where

her grandfather
had thrown a shoe in temper
and crack the plaster nose
will he go to Hell?

she recalled asking
her grandmother
O no
her grandmother said

not just for that
and she was pleased
because she liked her grandfather
and his simple ways

and hard toffees
she felt each toe in turn
moving a finger
over the plaster

and remembered
her school friend Mary
who had pressed
chewing gum

into the bellybutton
of the plaster Christ
in the cloister
of the convent school

back in the 1960s
and when Sister Bede
saw it she had to gently
chiselled it out

with a screwdriver
threatening severe punishment
to the girl responsible
but no one told

and even when she left years
after the bellybutton
of the Christ still had
the scar where Sister Bede

had chiselled too hard
there was a cough behind her
and Martha turned
and there was a nun

standing by the door
her eyes dark like berries
and her thin mouth
slowly opened

and she said
are you the girl
who wants to be a nun?
Martha nodded her head

and the nun told her
to follow her and she
went down a dim lit
passageway

the nun in front
pacing slow
each footstep measured
her hands tucked

out of sight
with only the sound
of her heels going
clip clop clip clop

on the flagstones
and the black habit
swaying very gracefully
as she walked

no more words
no questions
no answers
because no one talked.

You used to sit
on the cross beams
drilling holes through
for the wiring

circa 1965
on some building site
where Clifton
had left you

with the tools
for the jobs
he wanted done
hand drill

screwdrivers
hammer
chisel
and enough electric cable

to reach
the North pole
in the background
transistor radios

were blasting out
pop music
Bob Dylan
the Beatles

The Rolling Stones
and here and there
other guys
plasterers and painters

and bricklayers
all doing their job
when and where
they could

and you wondered if Clifton
would remember
to pick you up
after work or if

you'd have to get
the bus home spending
your own money
which he seldom repaid

(the tight ***)
but sometimes
you thought of Judith
and what

she was doing
and whom
she was seeing now
thinking back

to the  days
when she was yours
the bright days
the days you spent

by the pond
(which she
called the lake)
the kissing

the loving
the sun over
the pond
making shadows

and bright places
or the days at school
on the sports field
after recess

her words
her wisdom
her bright eyes
and smile lingering

as you bored the hole
in another cross beam
yours hands aching
from the constant turning

and Dylan singing
Blowing in the Wind
from some transistor
across the way

another hole to bore
another boring day.

Monica watches
as Benedict and Jim
practise judo on the grass
off the path
to the farmhouse.

She cheers Benedict on
standing on the edge
clapping her hands excitedly.

Her other brother Pete
leans against the fence bored,
hands ******
in his jean’s pockets.

How long are you going to be
practising this judo ****?
the film starts
in half an hour,
he says.

Benedict throws Jim
to the floor
in a  quick movement,
Monica raises her hands
to the air.

Knew you could do it,
knew you could,
she says, patting
Benedict on the back
of his jacket.

Jim dusts off
his jeans
with his hands,
looks at Pete,
then at Monica.

Caught me off guard,
he says,
she put me off
with her yelling
and clapping.

Can we go now?
Pete says,
moving off the fence,
now you’ve done
your judo stuff?

Can I come?
Monica asks
looking at Benedict.

No way,
Jim says,
don’t want no girl
dragging us down.

I am not any girl,
I’m your sister,
she says, staring
at Benedict.

He looks at Jim
then at Monica.
I don’t mind if she comes,
he says.

I do,
Pete says.

Monica pouts
and folds her arms
over her small *******.

The farmhouse door opens
and their mother comes out.
I thought you
were going to the cinema?
she says.

We are,
Jim says,
just going.

They won’t take me,
Monica says.

Of course they don’t
want you with them,
her mother says.

Anyway I have some chores
I need help with.

Monica pulls a face
and glares
at her brothers,
but looks at Benedict
pleadingly.

Maybe next time,
he says.

Not with us she don’t,
Pete says.
With me though, maybe,
Benedict says,
giving her a wink.

Come on in Monica,
leave the boys be,
the mother says.

Monica follows her mother
towards the farmhouse,
gesturing her middle digit
at her brothers
while her mother’s back
is turned.

Benedict smiles,
watches as she sways
her small hips,
blows him a kiss
from her open palm.

Jim shakes his head
and follows Pete
to the bikes
by the shed,
while Benedict,
takes a kiss
from his lips
and throws it
at Monica’s
departing back.

Her head turns
and her hands open
to catch the thrown kiss
moving slightly forward
so as not to miss.

Miss Billings dismounted her motorbike
over by the garage wall
and in Marilyn Monroe like fashion
she walked up towards

the forecourt where you
were sweeping
between the pumps
with the big broom

Mr Fredericks had given you
a few minutes ago
to clear the last
of the snow

got you busy already kid?
she said
undoing the headscarf
and giving you the eye

yes he said to get off
the rest of the snow
she glanced around
the forecourt

well don't let me keep you kid
don't let it be said
I kept a keen man down
and she walked off

into the garage rooms
to the back office
swaying her backside
as she went

you watched
until she had disappeared
then swept more snow
from the pumps

until half hour later
(only three cars had entered
the forecourt for petrol)
you walked to the small office

at the front where the till
was kept and a small heater
was lit to keep you warm
when Miss Billings came along

and said
you want some coffee
or cocoa? or anything else
to get you warm?

coffee would be nice
you said
OK kid
she said

keep yourself warm in there
don't want you to freeze
your jewels off
and she swayed away

humming some song
as she went
you rubbed
your chilled hands

together to warm them
remembering that Christmas
when you and Judith
had walked

through the snow
carol singing
her cheeks red
with her cold

her hand touching yours
her breath exiting
her mouth
like cigarette smoke

and she pretended
she had a cigarette
between fingers
her eyes bright as stars

her hand squeezing
her fingers freezing
what you dreaming about kid?
Miss Billings said

putting a mug of coffee
by the till
O just thinking
of happy times

in my past
well hold on to it kid
she said
because it won't last

and she wiggled off
like some imitation Monroe
without the glitter or good looks
back to the back office

to play with herself
or make up the books.

Christina, dressed in her grey school jumper,
grey skirt, white blouse and green tie,
met Benedict by the wire fence,
which separated the playground
from the sports field.  She looked excited
as he approached, he walked
his Robert Mitchum style walk,
met her with a smile, a scanning gaze,
taking in her eyes and hair and legs
and hands folded, standing there.

Guess what, she said, I've got an
Elvis Presley LP. Benedict nodded
and listened while she spoke.

Her mother had bought it for her
while in a good mood( she suffered
depression), though her father
didn't approve, he allowed her
to play on the new Hi-Fi.

Maybe you can come hear sometime,
she said, the when and how were
not discussed, she living in the town
and he some miles on a bus route away,
but maybe, he said, someday.

They walked up the field,
the other kids enjoying
the midday recess in the bright sun
and cloudless sky, her hand
gripping his, he taking in
her soft speaking and hips sway.

She conversed on the boring maths
she'd had, the domestic science
where she'd burnt her cake, who'd
eat it anyway, for Christ-sake,
she added, giving him her eyes
to drink, her words to hold and think.

He spoke in turn of geography
and woodwork where he began a stool,
thanking her for her photo she'd given
him to keep, tuck between his favourite
book at home, taking out to scan
and treasure, now and then( such
is the way of boys and men).

She spoke of love, the feelings touched,
the mind excited, her dreams of him,
talking in her sleep( her mother said).

He stared out at the other kids at play
or wandering in talk or playing ball
or skipping-rope, a teacher spying as
he crossed the grass, hands behind his back.

She leaned in close and kissed his cheek,
he turned and kissed her lips
to smother any further words.

Someone laughed out loud,
across the field, disturbing birds.

The last time Benedict
saw his mother
she was lying
in a hospital bed,
eyes closed, mouth
slightly open, dead.
He'd been told by a nurse
over the phone of her demise,
the voice matter of factly
pronounced the words,
the meaning came in later.

He thought of her, whom
he'd seen the evening before,
the last smile and wave
she'd given, although held
by dementia she seemed
aware he( or someone) was there.

Now she had gone, moved
to a spirit world he assumed
or hoped, although he sensed
her loss, like a ripping apart
and smash grab of his heart.

He had, he recalled, kissed
her forehead the last time
that evening prior, the skin
cool, wrinkled less, seeming
at rest. 91 years old was not
a bad innings he supposed,
holding onto that final image
of the previous evening, not
the final one where her body
lay deserted, the emptied shell,
that usual sickly hospital smell.

No, he wanted the last image
to be of her smiling and waving,
not drowning sickly, but saying
a goodbye, seeing half-blindly,
that look in her eye, seeming
to say: we all come, all must die.

He still feels the loss, the empty
place in his heart, the vacant lot,
but the memories cram into the little
boxes in his brain, a holding on,
till, hopefully, happier, they meet again.

Benedict stands
in the porter's lodge,
circa 1969, waiting
for Dom Tyler the monk,
to bring the large key
to open the church for Matins.

Dawn, cold air, smell of age
and incense and baking of bread.
He remembers Sonia,
the domestic at the home,
who pushed him to the bed
of old Mr Gillam and said
in her soft Italian,
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
then in her broken English said,
I could have *** with you here.

Another joined Benedict
in the porter’s lodge,
some holy-Joe type,
breviary under arm,
starved gaze.
The silence,
the smell,
the chill.
Dom Tyler opens the door
from the cloister
and rattles the key,
smiles, but does not
break the Grand Silence.

He takes them out
into the morning air,
opens up the church.

Lights are on, monks
are assembling, bell rings,
Benedict takes a seat
on the side pew,
the other sits
more in front.

The old monk who last time
talked to Benedict
of monastic life,
slides by, his body aged,
his habit like a shroud.

How he escaped Sonia,
how he managed
to get away unmolested,
he finds it hard to fathom,
except the promise
of the cinema,
the seats at the back,
the kisses and touching,
all in the dark,
the flashing images
of the film going on.

Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
he utters under-breath.
The Latin of early morning
Matins begins, he dismisses
her image and her words.

The holy-Joe opens his breviary
in the semi dark, his finger
turning pages, muttering,
his head nodding
to an invisible prayer.

Benedict imagines Sonia
creeping into the pew,
muttering Italian,
sitting there.

I want you
to wash my back
Skinny Kid
Anne said

she was standing
on her one leg
in the bathroom
of the nursing home

at Fishbourne
but what if someone comes
and sees me here?
you asked anxiously

we'll tell them to *******
she said pushing
the door shut
with a hand almost

falling over
in the process
you looked at her there
in a white towelling gown

the one leg showing
where the gown ended
Sister Paul
ran the bathwater

but left me
to get in and out
but what if she comes back?
you said

she won't
she gone off to prayers
in the chapel
Anne said

now come on Kid
let's to action
and she stripped off
the gown and holding

on your arm eased
herself into the water
with a slight splash
you stood there

trying not to notice
her *******
gazing at the white tiles
with ducks on each one

at the curtains
white and flowered
she began to wash herself
with a pink sponge

oozing soapsuds
her hand moving swiftly
over her parts
here and there

her stump visible
just under
the water's skin
does your leg hurt?

you asked
she looked up at you
now and then
she said

some nights
it hurts like ****
and when I go to rub it
it isn't there

now stop gawking
and start to rub my back
you took the sponge
from her hand

and began to push
the sponge over
her back nervously
her dark hair

over her shoulders
her head downward
her hands pushed
between her thighs

you felt embarrassed
moving over her flesh
seeing the curves
of her waist

sensing the sponge
wash over her
under her arms
you moved

OK OK that's enough
she said who do you think
you are
some ****** explorer?

I got carried away
you said
you will get carried away
in a fecking coffin

she said
right listen out
for the *** starved nuns
you gave her back

the sponge and wiped
your hands on the towel
by the bath
your ears strained

to hear any footsteps
of nuns
you lowered your arm
so Anne could pull

herself up and out
of the bath
and you wrapped
the big towel about her

shall I go now?
you asked
no
she said

stay until I’m done
in case if fall
so you stayed
looking at the walls

and ceiling
and the bath
with the ***** water
seeing out

of the corner
of your young boy's eyes
her rubbing herself dry
with one hand

while with the other
holding on to wall
just in case she slipped
or began to fall

then just as she turned around
you heard footsteps
and voices
out in the hall.

Some fairground
by the coast  
taken by the Baptist mission
by coach

and outside
some magic mirror tent
after having gone in
you said to Helen

not much in there to see
and the fairground guy
having overheard you said
not much to see?

come here and see again
and he took you
in the tent again
and showed you

how you looked
in front
of the various mirrors
in some you were thin

and tall and in another
you were broad
and fat or you were
squat as if someone

had sat on you
and squashed you flat
and you laughed at that
and the guy said

see there is much to see
so go tell your girlfriend
so you went out
of the tent

and said to Helen
yes it was good
the second time around
and Helen said

perhaps we should
go in together
and so you paid the guy
the money

and you went in
with her and stood
together in front
of the mirrors

and laughed
and she held
your hand
and you remembered

the guy saying
tell your girlfriend
and you guessed
she was

and that made
you feel happy
even schoolboys
of 10 years old

sometimes want girlfriends
secretly endeared
away from the sight
or knowledge

of other boys
as if it were some kind
of betrayal
of the schoolboy code

and as you walked
about the fairground
you watched  
where others

on racing
wooden horses rode.

Judith sat next to you
on the school bus
going home

holding hands
beneath her coat
on her lap

and she said
some one must have seen us
the other week

by the pond
because my dad
asked me about it

last night
and he said
not to let mum know

which I wouldn't
of course
but who saw us?

I don't know
you said
couldn't see anyone about

but who would tell my dad
about it?
did your dad say

who told him?
no he wouldn't say
she said

looking worried
have to be careful
where we go

you looked out
the window
at the passing scenes

her hand in yours
warm
her fingers next

to yours
what about meeting
in my dad's tool shed

that's quite big
and there's a couple
of old chairs in there

apart from his tools
and such
you said

I don't know
she said
what if your parents

see us?
we could go
into the house

they won't mind
me and you together
mum likes you

does she?
Judith asked
yes she says she does

you said
Judith smiled
and leaned closer to you

but didn't kiss
because of other kids
on the bus nearby

I like it near our lake
(Judith called it the lake
even though it was just

a large pond)
I like the quiet there
and the ducks

and fish just
beneath the surface
and the birds flying

overhead
she said
I like it there too

you said
us being alone together
just lying there

or sitting
looking over
the pond

the peacefulness
the aloneness
of us just being us

and you thought
of you and Judith
that last time

kissing
laying near
the pond

being there
feeling her near
smelling the perfume

she borrowed
from her mother's collection
feeling her lips

on yours
and as she looked away
out of the window

you wanted to kiss
the nape of her neck
but you didn't

you just sighed
wishing you were elsewhere
sans other kids

sans others' eyes
just you and her
and the pond or lake

feeling as if dawn
had just come
and you from some

dark sleep
and were now awake.

Sitting on a field gate
looking toward the Downs
Jane talked
of butterflies

and birds
and formation
of clouds
trying to educate you

on the country ways
you sat in blue jeans
and white shirt
unbuttoned at the neck

and she wore
the simple grey dress
white socks
and brown shoes

muddied
from recent ventures
into muddy fields
London's is a doss house

compared to this
you said
although I miss
the cinema

and locality of shops
but then there's you
with your down
to earth beauty

and straight forward
country wisdom
I'm not beautiful
in any sense

she said
the only real beauty
Father says
is the sky above us

and all that lies beyond
you gazed
at her profile
the dark hair

the pale skin
the finely drawn lips
the way she tossed
her head

to remove hair
from her eyes
she jumped down
from the field gate

on to the grass
and walked on
and you followed
she looked back

and smiled
why did you look at me
in that way?
what way?

I don't know
that studying me
kind of way
as if you'd only just

seen me
for the first time
maybe I have
you said

maybe I've seen you
for the first time
in a different way
she looked away

her eyes scanning
the Downs
my mother trusts you
I am glad she does

you said
she trusts you
because you're not like
most boys around here

whom she doesn't trust
she picked cowslips
from the field
and sniffed them

and held them out
to you to sniff
beautiful aren't they?
simple yet beautiful

you sniffed them
and gave them
back to her
yes they smell good

you said
she put out a hand
and touched yours
her hand was warm

you rubbed your thumb
over the back
of her hand a
s you walked on

she holding the cowslips
in the other hand
sniffing them
now and then

what is it
you like about me?
she asked
moving off the field

onto the tree lined drive
up to the Downs
you're pretty
and quiet

and thoughtful
and I feel relaxed
with you
anything else?

I like your eyes
and your hair
and the way you smile
she laughed

and looked away
blushing
after a few minutes
she walked you into

a large hollowed out tree
and sat down inside
as if it were a large
inner room

do you love me?
she asked softly
you looked at her mouth
the way her lips

had moved so simply
yes I guess I do
you said
she leaned toward you

and kissed you
the meeting of lips
she put down the cowslips  
and embraced you

with both arms
you held her close
smelling the freshness
of new apples

and country air
then she sat back
and pushed the hair
from her face

and said
I trust you too
and then she was up
and out of the hollow tree

with her cowslips
and walked on to
the drive again
and called out

come on we've away
to walk to the top
and you came out
of the tree

and followed her
noticing how slow
she swayed as she walked
the cowslips rising

and falling in her hand
her voice calling you
to follow her
and you did

near to her side
sensing her nearness
her beauty
the way she walked

and talked
and off to one side
a woodpecker
tapped tapped

on a tree
and you'd wanted
to be no where else
neither distant climes

or lands afar
but close to her
and following her
like some

tall ship
at sea
follows
a bright star.

Much too late
for thoughts
of what her father
might say

Fay went with you
to the Globe cinema
in Camberwell Green
a right fleapit of a place

but the film
you wanted to see
was on there
Daniel Boone

all about the Old West
and after it was over
and you came out
into the bright sunlight

your eyes felt
over whelmed
after the darkness
of the cinema

what did you think?
you asked
Fay said
yes it was good

not the sort of film
Daddy would have let me see
well he won't know
you've seen it

will he
you said
unless he asks me
then I'll have to

tell him the truth
she said
why would he ask?
you looked at her

standing there
with her fair hair
and lovely blue eyes
he might ask me

what I have done today
she said
her eyes beginning
to show signs of fear

maybe he won't
you said
just tell him
you've been studying

American history
she looked at her hands
he doesn't like America
or Americans

she said
well you don't have to
like something to study it
I have to do it all week

at school
you said
maybe he won't ask
she said softly

looking at you
fiddling with her fingers
distract him
tell him something else

talk about a butterfly
you saw on the bombsite
she looked at you
and smiled

you don't know him
he'll ask me
what sort of butterfly
and I won't know

and he'll know
I've been lying
and that will mean
being punished

she looked up the street
toward the bus stop
we had better be getting back
she said

he'll be home soon
ok
you said
and took her hand

and walked toward
the bus stop and waited
for the bus
if I told my mother

the truth all the time
she'd have a nervous breakdown
it's more kinder
to keep her happy

in innocent bliss
of what I get up to
Fay looked haunted
and was silent

she still held your hand
a fading bruise just visible
on her upper arm
where her dresses sleeve

moved
how about some ice-cream
when we get back
I've got a Shilling

given to me
by my old man yesterday?
she hesitated
ok I’d like that

she said
and when the bus
came along
you both got on

and sat next
to each other
downstairs near
the conductor

watching the scenes
of passing people
and traffic go by
but a special place

in your mind and heart
of Fay
next to you
quiet and shy.

Janice of red beret fame
with fair hair
to her shoulders
and dressed slightly better

than the rest
of there about
invited you
(with your mother’s

permission
and her gran’s invitation)
to tea after school
in the upstairs apartment

not far away
what did you want
for eats and drink?
Janice asked

bread and jam
you replied
bread and jam?
she repeated

as if you’d asked
for caviar on toast
no you must
have more than that

she said
Gran what’s for eats?
and her gran
came into the lounge

where the cosy furniture
was set out in place
neat and tidy
with a canary

in a cage
on a stand
and her gran related
a list of things

you could have
far exceeding
what you usually
had at home

cheese and cress
sandwiches
you said
please added on

as an afterthought
and Janice
had the same
to be like you

and her gran went off
and Janice said
she likes you
says you have more breeding

than some round here
o
you said
thanks

and you pushed
your hand
through your hair
and pulled

your school jumper
in place
and tightened
the tie

we’re going
to the fairground Saturday
will you come too?
you hesitated

and took in
her fair hair
and her fine features
and prim gaze

I’ll have to see
what my mum says
you uttered
o she won’t mind

Gran’s already
mentioned it I think
Janice said
well yes then

you said
I’d like that
she smiled
and spoke

of learning French
at school
and the teacher
who took her

for that and history
she’s a dear
and positively a beauty
I’ve got Ashdown

and she’s plump
and has an ****
like a hippo
you said

Janice choked
and sputtered
with laughter
all at the same time

that’s so rude
she said
putting her small hand
to her mouth

gosh don’t let Gran
hear to speak like that
or you’ll be off
her good boy list

as swift as lightening
you sat bemused
when her gran came in
with two plates

of sandwiches
what’s so funny?
she asked
putting the plates

on the table
o nothing much
Janice said
Benedict told me

a little joke
o well as long
as it wasn’t rude
Gran said

o no
Janice said
and looked at you
o no

you muttered
just a innocent joke
from school
her gran went off

to get the drinks
if Gran heard me
say thinks like that
she’d tan my backside

and no mistake
Janice took a bite
of her sandwich
and you ate yours

listening to the canary
sing and the bell it
rung inside the cage
and her gran singing

from the kitchen
in a soprano voice
and you took in
Janice’s light blue eyes

wherein you thought
but did not say
some good part
of beauty lies.

After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans

you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street

she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm

her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands

and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them

where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things

she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?

sure if you think
she'll worry
you said

be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone

ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict

and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station

and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor

and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs

Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said

the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied

and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare

Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside

there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed

and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people

and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty

and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way

and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?

just a creep
wanting a peep
you said

peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful

yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said

what then?
she asked

oh something
he oughtn't
you said

and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew

and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.

The way Mrs Dillinger had
of making it
seem so simple

even that time
she said
come round
one afternoon

and we can discuss
your writing or politics
or whatever you like

but she didn't mention
that her husband
was out
or that she

was after your body
and wanted to hear
you read your work

only after
a good session
in her bed
but your pecker

wouldn't perform
wouldn't act
like some circus horse

and so of course
the politics
didn't get discussed
or your writing craft

maybe next time
she said
in any case

my husband
maybe back soon
and I don't want him
getting in

on the act
of discussing politics
or your art and craft

and so
you went away
your art
and craft intact

and your politics
undiscussed
and your pecker

breathing a sigh
of relief
well this time around
at least

you thought
the wilful
bashful beast.

Outside Oslo
in the base camp
after showering
you met Moira

in the cafe
for breakfast
and coffee
she was in a mood

about the Yank girl
and having to share
a tent with her
(when she wasn’t off

someplace being *******
Moira said)
and always chewing gum
and those *******

she wears
I’ve seen more cloth
on a finger cut
she said

I’ll take your word for it
you said
she pouted
and stared at you

the finger cut I meant
you said
by the way
are you into

Oslo today?
you asked
mind if I hang along?
sure as long as you don’t

talk about the Yank
or football or Mahler
or whoever else
is hid up

in that brain of yours
she sipped her coffee
and ate her breakfast
saying nothing more

and you watched
as she ate
her eyes dark
and deep

her hair frizzed up
after the shower
her tee shirt
holding tight

her ****
and her blue jeans
hugging her thighs
as you’d like to do

later in Oslo
you toured about
the streets
saw the sights

had a beer or two
while you sat
with her
in some bar

she talking of Glasgow
and her job
and her brother
and his girlfriend

and how
she had this awful
wiggly ****
and floppy *******

and large eyes
like cow pats
soft and brown
and she laughed  

and you liked it
when she laughed
it made her seem better
more human

less grumpy
less critical
and had you been
more brave you might

have kissed her
there and then
but you didn’t
you just ordered

another beer
and talked of Nietzsche
and Mahler
just to watch

her lips move
and incidentally
bore her.

Tucking Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
into the bedside cabinet
of the cheap

Paris hotel
having cleaned
the greasy sink
and bidet

you walked out
on the street
breathing in
the Parisian air

smelling the perfume
of the restaurants
on the side walks
seeing the sights

taking photographs
as memoirs
drinking the wines
and beers

and that fish
with eyes still there
putting you off
you tried to get out

of the cheap cafe
but paid for the meal
you couldn’t eat
the fish eye

gazing up at you
dead eye
battered fish
and the Left Bank

and night
and you taking in
the sights and lights
and those ******

sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home

or the **** films
you never
went to see
in those cinemas

you just walked by
or the Eiffel Tower day
right to the top
the view splendid

the sight historical
or those rides
on the Metro
riding the wrong carriages

looking out
for the train inspector
pretending to be Aussies
giving it the yak

and later
in your hotel room
taking out
Dostoyevsky

and entering
the Russian world
of ****** and deceit  
and being followed

you imagined
by the detective
looking out
onto the Parisian street

from the open window
of your room
gazing at street corners
and shadows  

or remembering
that French girl
in the cafe
who served you

with bright eyes
black and white dress
and white apron
the fine long legs

and wiggling behind
recalling the old priest
who once said
too much ***
will make you blind.

I’ll not get over George,
Alice said, not manage
to get him out of my skin
or memory. Her psychiatrist

said she might. ****. Her
word. Heard it someplace.
Not sure where. No, George
she misses. Known him for

years, ever since the work
house closed and they were
dumped in some home for
homeless.  He was partially

blind, saw badly, spoke in
a jumble of words. But she
was drawn to him; first out
of pity, then deeper out of

love. Possible, her psychiatrist
said, love may help whatever
it is. ****. Her word. Heard
it somewhere, not sure where.

She kissed George first; then
he kissed her. Each carried the
work house haunting with them.
Young staff at the home for the

homeless, smirked, spoke behind
their hands. George seeing her
poorly imagined her better maybe,
she didn’t care, at least he was

kissing her and he was right there.
Once they almost did it, but
George fumbled and they lost
concentration. And they gave

that up as a bad job. Best not to,
her psychiatrist said. ****. Her word.
Heard it someplace, not sure where.
Then George died; stiff in bed, his not

hers, heart gave out, the doctor said,
poor Alice, loved mostly, cared much,
all gone, not wed, she alone, missing
George, in her single noisy spring bed.

She holds the dead child
her arms heavy with the loss
grief leaks through fingers.

Early morning
book on Schopenhauer
under your arm
cigarettes

in your pocket
you sat in one
of the cafes
in Dubrovnik

having ordered
a coffee
and lit up
to smoke

the book
put on the table
the ashtray
set so

you observed
the passing people
the females mostly
the gentler ***

as is said
the sway of skirt
or dress
the fine legs

the shape of foot
the figures
slim or plump
the mental study

of the shape of ***
the tightness
of ****
and all the while

at the back
of the mind
the idea of God
the faith required

seemingly lacking
the St Augustine view
wanting to be saved
from sin

but not just yet
the waiter
brought coffee
and cake

just the nibble
for the breakfast’s sake
and you thought
on the night before

the walk in the City
the lights lit up
the passing crowds
the concert

some pianist
playing Chopin
you and your brother
side by side

taking it all in
making the most of
and the indulgence
of wine

and the chatting up
of the waitresses
at the hotel
with no success

and you opened
the Schopenhauer book
the print of page
the scatter of words

ideas too deep
for the morning sun
you closed it up
and sipped the coffee

took a drag
on the cigarette
viewed the cute ***
as it passed you by

summer dresses
short skirts
tight tops
in all colours

shoes or bare feet
to please the eye
and the idea of God
observing

listening in
secretly pleading
maybe you do
or do not

to be absolved
from sometime
the deeper sin.

No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as

Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when

The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.

You watched her run
the bread
and butter knife
along

her inner arm
blunt blade
gesture only
enough to give

the nurses
something
to think about something
to make them

take the knife away
and sigh or curse
beneath breath
she walked about

the locked ward
in her light blue
nightgown
no shoes

or socks
or stockings
sometimes she’d search
through the men’s drawers

for razor blades
or something sharp
no doing
you said

I’ve looked already
she said
heard you tried
to string yourself up

in the john?
had those **** nurses
wetting themselves
and banging

on the locked door
and god
how they nigh
wet their *******

with it all
she said
almost managing
a small smile

bags
under her eyes
her pale skin
thin lips

sans lipstick
how do you think
it’ll go?
waiting

your next chance?
maybe
you said
she touched your hand

ran a finger
along the wrist
and scar
her gentle skin

setting fire
to tired flesh
then after tea
after the sandwiches

which Big Ted
brought up
from the canteen
watching

the sky
turn blue
to black
you knew

the dark was approaching
and the Black Dog back.

He holds the tiller
of the boat with
his left hand, white
pants and tee shirt,

boater just so, and
the young dame there
reclining to one side
dressed to the nines,

yakking away, hat
plonked on her head,
him thinking of the
one that got away,

his arms stretched
out wide kind of fish,
the other guys so
impressed when he

said, but the dame,
all she yaks of is how
long it for took her
to chose what to wear

and what went with
what, and does my
*** look ok in this?
or she talks of what

one of her next-door
neighbours said or
did or didn’t do or
she yaks of shoes

how she saw this
pair to die for O,
she says, you should
have seen them,

my eyes were oozing
eyes of joy just to see
them, but he, letting
her words drift by,

thinks of the boat he
almost bought, the
one he saw in port
the other day, god

how he loved it, the
size and colour, the
way it was set out in
the water, floating

there, bobbing slowly,
like some beautiful
dame ready for the
off.  Sea breeze moves

the boat, wind shifts
the sails, she still sitting
yakking, her lips opening
and closing, fish out of

water kind of thing, he
wonders why he brought
her along, why he didn’t
set sail alone, the whole

horizon of sea and sail,
and not her constant
yak and miserable moan.

It took you some time to get
Where you are; no overnight
Fall or idle thought to drop out
Or taste how the other half lived,
Although now you know,
But a collection of erroneous
Decisions or the wrong people
At a bad time, or maybe that child
You lost and husband quitting,
Was all too much for you
To soldier on in the complex
World of the here and now.

Shelter is shelter, you mumble,
Sipping the warm soup, the memory
Of the last good supper long forgotten
Or put aside in that room marked
Verboten, and the trainers, yes,
The trainers fit the feet well,
Best for ages, you smilingly mutter,
The rest are rags, but they keep me
Warm at the best of times, which
Are few, you add, sensing the chill
Of the wall against your back;
Maybe Buddha would not pass by
Unnoticing, maybe he will give
Smile or coin or kind words
Like oil for rusting joints.

You sit and stare and muse
And feel the wind whisper,
Sense the passers-by look down
At you, feel their eyes, their
Muttered utterances, their shakes
Of head, their tut-tutting, and just
Remembering now your mother’s
Soft hand brushing your childhood
Head, soothing the poverty from brow
And cheek, maybe that’s what you want
On this street, maybe it’s her that you seek.

The dance has exhausted,
the muscles pull
and become taut
and tense.

She remembers
Marcel’s taunt:
she could not dance
after such a night

of ***. She leans over,
ties tighter
her shoes, her
fingers fumbling,

her back aching,
limbs trembling.
She looks up,
sees the other

dancers in line,
pulling at dresses
and tights,
hair in place.

She rises, pulls
at her dress, tidies
her hair, stands
in line, trying

to focus, mind
on the now, not
last night, not on
the ***. ****,

maybe Marcel
was right.

It was the year
man first walked
on the moon

but the third year running
you and your brother
walked the streets
of Edinburgh

and stayed
at the guesthouse
where the Yank guy
told you how
he was mugged
in some bog
at Waverly Station

I was in the stall
on the seat
when there was a banging
on the door
and someone yelled
open up I’m going to puke
so I did the
Yank said
and some guy
stole the wallet
from my pant’s pocket
and ran off

your brother sat
at the breakfast table
bemused

why did you open
the door?
you asked

well I guess I thought
it would help
the Yank said
holding his coffee cup
with both hands
you know
kind of threw me
off course

I’d have told the guy
to go puke elsewhere
your brother said

but he seemed desperate
the Yank said
looking at your brother
with a Humphrey Bogart gaze
won’t do that again
he said
sipping his coffee

you studied the guy’s plump face
his bulky frame
his sausage size fingers
the gold ring
on his third
right hand finger
his I LOVE AMERICA tee-shirt
his blue shorts

no matter
guess we all learn
from our mistakes
you said
next time
someone bangs
on the bog door
tell them
go puke on the floor

the Yank nodded his head
his Bogart impression
faded
to a saggy dog face

and you thought
gazing at
his blonde hair
there
but for the grace of God
go I  
and your brother smiled
and winked a blue eye.

It was cool
inside
the Burgos Cathedral

the people pious
and otherwise
was in rows

either side
the priest
was up front

muttering in Spanish
the people
muttering back

and you stood
trying to find your place
in the book of mass

tucked in the seat
in front
what are they saying?

Mamie said
why is that old guy
giving me the eye

she was sitting
beside you in one
of the pews

her short skirt
showing plenty
of leg

her tight bust
pushing
to be free

is it Latin?
she asked
no Spanish

you said
she dragged
her finger

down the page
muttering words
you watched the priest

hands raised
his hands open
to the heavens

some old senora
was giving you
the evil eye

her dark eyes
like prunes
in a basin

of dull cream
searched you out
that old guy

is still licking me
with his oily eyes
Mamie said

you smelt the incense
the stink
of bodies unwashed

her perfume
her bust close
to your arm

pressing nearer
her hair wild
and bushy

was held in place
by a red Alice band
the old guy looked away

he’d had his fill
his eyes watery
aged

****** elsewhere
like aged slugs
Mamie closed

the mass book
put it back in place
and folded her hands

in mock prayer
like pose
her eyes drinking in

the scene
the priest
the altar

the windows
the statues
her voice soft

in your ear said
when can we
get out of here?

I need to ***
the priest held aloft
the host

the Christ
the Lamb of God
she pushed her hands

between her thighs
squeezed her knees
in anxious pose

ok you
said moving
from the pew

better go
before you wee
I suppose.

Father knew **** about Vietnam,
Says Bill, other than what he heard

On the radio or the newspapers or
All that other spiel from red necks

Or dumb heads, he knew nothing
About the real war or the reasons

Behind the death fields. Bill inhales
On his cigarette and takes in the

Young feller undressed and laid
Out on the bed with his thin arms

Behind his head, his ***** hanging
Limp like something dead. He watches

As the youngster looks up at the ceiling,
A cigarette held between red lips, his

Pale blue eyes like ponds of shallow
Water. We pulled out of Vietnam quicker

Than a ***** drops her draws in the end,
Although we in the know knew it’d come

To that even before the politician could
Pull up their pants and put on the public

Faces. The youngster sniggers, pulls on
His smoke, some private joke, Bill considers,

The shallowness of youth, remembering
Young soldiers in Vietnam and elsewhere

In later years blown up or out or dead or
****** in the head. The youngster gazes

At Bill wondering if this guy was some secret
Government agent who could **** as good

As he could ****, whether it was all just talk
Or whether the guy could walk the deadly

Walk. Bill smiles, the innocence of youth,
He muses, stubbing his cigarette **** into

An ashtray, remembering the young kid
Whose throat he slit in Mexico some years

Back as he sat and ****, some double cross,
Some dark deceit, Agency orders, job done,

Neat and clean, unknown, unloved, unseen.

At the fountain
by Nelson’s Column
you met Julie
in mini skirt

and bright
red top
her hair hugged
into a ponytail

a copy of Sgt Pepper’s
under her arm
you in jeans
and open necked shirt

came across to her
standing there
looking into the fountain’s water
sorry I’m late

you said
missed my train
no problem
she said

bought my own Beatles' LP
and she held it out to you
friends say it's neat
and way out

she added
as you scanned
the sleeve
where we going?

you asked
drink I must have a drink
she said
how’s things

at the hospital?
usual stuff: treatment
drugs to get me
off drugs

therapy
psychiatrists
nurses
and so on

you?
she asked
I’m ok
you said

ok is crap
ok is boring
is mediocre
life either *****

or it’s exciting
and over the top
she said
the Square was crowded

people
and pigeons
and water
and sun

and sky
and mixture
of perfumes
and bus fumes

let’s get that drink
she said
and so you went off
to a bar off

Trafalgar Square
and ordered two drinks
and sat outside
in the sunshine

I think the fat nurse
on my ward suspects us
she said
suspects what?

you asked
you and me
and that small room
o that

you said
she took out
a cigarette pack
and took out

two cigarettes
and gave one
to you and lit
them both

think she’s jealous
or envious
Julie said smiling
free love

makes some women angry
Schopenhauer said
somewhere
that wives and ******

despise women
who give ***
away free
it undermines
their contracts

how’s Jamie?
you asked
still locked up
she said

they claim
he was supplying
but he wasn’t
they ******* him up

she inhaled
and searched
your eyes
you still playing

your saxophone?
yes
you said
I practice everyday

annoys
the neighbours
sometimes
but got to

keep up with it
and hone the skills
she sat legs crossed
her thighs exposed

her footwear bright
her fingers holding
the cigarette
the lips red

her eyes
like small mirrors
small **** pressed
against the red top

the memory
of that small room
off the ward
she and you

and brooms
and boxes
and such
and kisses

and ***
and on edge
for the door to open
but not overmuch.

You can’t get the stink
Of the hospital
Out of your mind, that
Aspect haunts as
Much as the mindless
***** (who handed
You your dead baby)
Who had icy eyes
And a hint of so what
Written there framed by
The blonde hair, the blue

Eyes and all around
Inside your head the
Buzz of flies. You can’t
Get the colour scheme
Out of your turned back
Memory, the walls
And doors and window
Frames, the nurses and
Doctor’s faces a
Whirl and buzz, and you
Holding onto your

Dead baby’s name there
Amongst discarded
Other names, wanting
The hold to last, to
Feel the soft parcel,
To want her then to
Open eyes, to breathe,
To prove them wrong, to
**** them in their chilled
Cosiness. You can’t
Get the baby out

Of your hurt mind, can’t
Forget the last hug,
The wanting for her
To cling on, to take
Your dug and **** and
****, but she never
Did, never moved, not
Opened eyes; that’s when
It aches the more, that’s
What brings the deep cries.

The baby is never far
From your thoughts; each
Passing pram or pushchair
Nudges you into looking,
Into remembering, aching.

You try to turn your head
When some mother feeds
From breast some baby in arms,
You hold back the tears, when
Reflecting on how the small

Mouth opens like some frail
Fish out of water and you want
It to be yours, your breast
The baby latches onto, your
Eyes that the babe searches

In wonderment. Often nightly,
You tiptoe to the phantom cot
And gaze at the ghostly image
That ought to be there, never
Far from your thoughts, never

More than a fingertip away
Is the memory of that last hold,
That final gaze, that eased out
Wheeze and you left out in
Grief’s dark corridor and cold.

Still born babe coffined.
Mother broken heart and head,
her first baby dead.