The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden

beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother

you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out

their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not

you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked

don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you

wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said

don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails

he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading

don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother

a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back

toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side

in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind

me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said

where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said

climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off

her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted

with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow

at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off

along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane

between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up

her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping

the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life

her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind

in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down

the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed

then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks

she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree

and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge

and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright

and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?

she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world

you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said

holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises

at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you

beside her
no you’re not
you said

nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said

bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are

you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire

out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica

nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed

and opening
and closing
her arms soft

and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion

like wings
her hands flopping
above her head

her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance

and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.

Sister Elizabeth looks
out of window. No mirror.
Self unseen. Image only

Imagined.  Pushes window
Outward, breathes air,
morning fresh, birdsong

From mulberry tree, old
still there. The cloister
Below, the red brick, arches,

Walls, no nun in sight.
At Matins eyes hard to
keep open, stifled yawns,

Chanted from memory, Latin
Words on page a dull blur.
Wonder how father is?

Aged now, pains most days.
She sniffs the air, breathes
in, tastes fresh air on tongue.

She places a hand behind
the pane of glass of window.
Her refection seen there.

Sin of sin. Vanity of vanities.
She looks at her refection.
Seen. Takes her hand away.

Makes sign of the cross.  
Bell tolls. Bell tower across
the way. Who rings? Which

Sister? Lauds soon. Chants
And prayers. She fingers her
cowl, brushes nose, eyelids.

She looks away from window.
Cell tidy. Books put in shelves.
Crucifix on wall above bed.

Wooden and aged. Plaster
Christ, pinned by small nails
through hands. Mother bought

Her her first rosary. White, small,
silver cross and Christ. Mother
taught to say rosary. Word for

Word. Mother cancer eaten.
Prayers offered. She moves to
the door, goes out. Passageway

Clear. None is there. She closes
her cell door. Puts hands away
In her black habit. Walks, muses,

Silent prayers. Down the stairs,
as taught, slow but careful, not
to rush, no running.  Into the

Cloister, morning sunlight touches
cloister wall and floor. Flowers
in flower bed by cloister wall,

Well tended, watered. Fingers
Rosary, thumb over the body
of Christ, rubs, smooth with

Rubbing. Goes by the refectory
door, smells of coffee, warm
Bread. On by the stairs to upper

Landings. Sister Francis by cloister
wall eyes closed, lips moving,
hands together. passes by, notes

White hands, fingers touching.
Smell of incense from church,
enters, fingers stoup, holy water,

Touches forehead, makes sign
Of Christ, moves into church,
genuflects, enters choir stalls,

Takes place. Stands till closes
Eyes, sees the image of herself
In window mirror reflected face.

School over
Judith began work
in town
in some grocery store

filling shelves
talking to customers
sitting on the checkout
and you went

saw her there once
busy
clothed
in the company’s

uniform
she was filling up holes
on the shelves
what are you doing here?

she said
you said you had a day off
from the petrol station
where you worked

out of town
that you wanted
to see her
how about tonight?

you asked
I can’t tonight
I’m working late
and I’m so tired

when I get home
what about tomorrow?
she said
I can’t

you said
I work until 8
she continued
filling the shelves

you looked about the store
taking in
the closed in feel
like being trapped

she looked about her
can’t talk for long
in case the manager
comes and bawls me out

she said
like being at school
you said
worse

she said
you looked at her
standing there
the uniform

the captivity of being
her eyes being fed
labels and prices
and contents of packets

her hands busy
the fingers moving
her cheeks flushed
her lips slightly pursed

as if wanting to kiss
but dare not
remember the first kiss we had?
you asked

yes
she said
pausing her work
gazing at you

Christmas while singing carols
with the choir
out in the evening air
no one looking

not seeming to care
she said
you just 14
me a still 13

going on 14
yes it had been like that
you recalled
and from the first time

you saw her
her eyes leapt out
at you and your heart
thumped inside

your chest
like some mad thing
wanting to get out
but that was then

you thought
watching her work
the school days over
the free time less

she in town working
all hours
you out of town
working the gas station

(you liked
the Americanization
of the term) till late
she busy

looking over her shoulder
time running out
love leaking away
she worried about

the manager seeing
you wanting to stay
but then
some store supervisor came

and moved on
to some other chore
and she waved
and you waved back

things weren’t
the same
the love not
as it was before.

You remembered
the girl
not her name
but Ward

the kid next to you
in the science class
caught sight
of the girls

through the window
off across
the sports field
in their yellow tops

and green
short
P.E. skirts
and said

in hushed voice
look at that
all that girl flesh
and me stuck here

being brain soddened
by this science guff
when I could be out
with the girls

you saw her
out there
with skip rope
rushing after others

the sun warm
the sky hazy
the science teacher
sprouting off

about something boring
and Ward
his eyes
supping it all in

through the glass
the sports teacher
following
in her adult

blue top
and white P.E skirt
with whistle
between lips

and the girl
had been swallowed up
into the mass
of yellows

and greens
and legs
and arms
and the glass

of the classroom
like a huge
picture frame
holding for the eyes

the girls
in yellow and green
and the girl
with the lost name.

This was her last death
All others were rehearsals.
Goodnight my lovely.

You cut the motor
On the mower. I’ve

Never seen the grass
Cut with so much

Enthusiasm, Father
Dean said, coming

Up along side the abbey
Church where you

Had mown, you a
Postulant monk, he

A professed monk,
Bearded (permission

Granted due to a fragile
Heart) robed in black.

He smiled, his tired
Gaze scanned where

You had been. I like it
Out in the fresh air,

You said shyly. To work
Is to pray, he said, and

To pray is to work. You
Have done both. You

Smiled and looked over
The mown stretch of

Grass beside the abbey
Church. The bell tolled

From the bell tower.
Must go, he said, the

Lord calls. He wandered
Slowly down by the back

Of the abbey and out of
Sight. Over by the side

The monk’s cemetery stood
Silent and still, the stone

Crosses marking the resting
Place of monks who had died.

Overhead, in the sky black and
Long winged rook flew and cried.

Sheep wool entangled
in the barbwire
on the Downs
at the top

and you and Jane
laying there
taking in the sun
and the blue of sky

and white of clouds
the soft grass
beneath you
she pointing

at birds overhead
naming them
laughing
when you got

the name wrong
her moving fingers
the hand waving there
and you talking

of the dullness
of London
by comparison
it unknown to her

the big city
the traffic
the noise
the smell

and she there
beside you
her grey skirt
tucked about her

her white blouse
open at the neck
the impression
of *******

her profile
as you turned
and gazed
the dark hair

embracing
her jaw line
the eyes gazing upward
her white socks

the old shoes
the sight of legs
from shoes
to hem of skirt

the beat of heart
your heart pumping
the sight of her
the closeness

and her voice
in the air your
hand reaching out
to touch her arm

inching outward
your fingertips
and her fingertips
feel and fold

and entangle
and release
and entangle
and she said

that cloud formation
is like an enormous god
opening arms
you looked

and frowned
and that one there
she said
is like an angel

with white wings
you gazed
at her lips moving
that one there

you said pointing
is like Santa Claus
running naked
to the beach

and she laughed
and there was the echo
of her laughter
all over the space

of Downs
her fingers
holding yours
touching

not quite Michelangelo
as art
but at least
some union

of heart
moving heart.

That last time in Brighton
Back in 1980 was a dead

Lost. The old haunts seemed
Changed, the restaurants

Closed or changed hands,
The seafront less friendly,

Less romantic, the glamour
Gone, all high dreams spent.

Pity really we ever went.
But we did, you at least,

Trying to bring it back to life
That old love, that closeness,

That cold-night rush-to-coast
By train romance, that last

Time just memory, being put
To rest, I guess. Even that crap

Hotel had closed down where
We made love on those *****

Weekends, where one midday,
We unconcerned about that

Office block across the way,
With office workers, maybe

Spying, as we had *** that day.
Yes, the last time in Brighton

Was a lost cause; even the sad
Photographs we had taken there

Showed the dead love in faces
And eyes. The clicking camera,
Someone once said, never lies.

They must be
A couple
Of right *******
To ill threat

The young man so;
One blonde,
One brunette,
Thinking themselves,

No doubt,
God’s gift,
Gift of the gab
More like,

Strutting their
Henhouse tracks
With feathers
Prim and proper

They like to think.
Smell the perfume stink,
The eyelids painted,
Nails clipped

And primed,
Tongues wagging,
Like tails of *******
On full heat.  

Karma has its way
Of making things
Right in the end.
Sufficient lies

To hang themselves
Given time, enough
Tall tales to drown in
Like plump frogs

Caught out
In the last fast
Downpour.
Like snakes

They spit their
Joined venom;
Like snakes
They prefer

The long grass;
How each of them
Moves like a hippo
To the waterhole,

Each with their
Swaying fat ***.

You met Fay
by the Bricklayer’s
Arms

she in her catholic
school uniform
satchel by her side
hand held

you hot
from the school day
sticky in your
grey flannels
and black blazer
tie undone
open necked shirt

thought I’d meet you
here today
she said
I got the bus down
from school

good to see you
you said
putting away
the football cards
in an inside
pocket

how was school today?
she asked

usual brainwashing
you said

she walked beside you
as you went along
the New Kent Road

how was your day?
you asked

don’t want
to talk about it
she said
I just want to talk
about other things

the traffic roared by
the fumes
in the air

how about coming
to the cinema Saturday?
you asked

I haven’t any money
she replied

I can pay
my old man
will give me
the money

best not
in case my father
finds out
she said

he needn’t know
you said

but if he did
she said
there’d be
hell to pay

you turned right
down Harper Road
she seeking out
your hand
you feeling her hand
in yours

what if I asked him?
you said

God no
that would make it worse
he would think
I put you up
to it

silence settled
between you

what about going
to South Bank
we could watched
the boats and ships
along the Thames
and have ice creams
and soda pop?

Saturday?
she asked

yes
you said
after breakfast?

she nodded
her eyes alight
a smile opening
on her lips
her warm hand
gripping yours

the childhood
love adventure
out of doors.

Let him wait,
she says,
drying under arms
after her bath,
the towel rubbing the skin,

talcum powder
on the side
ready to be applied,

he downstairs waiting,
impatient no doubt,
pacing up and down
or sitting smoking,
cursing under his breath.

A woman’s privilege
to take her time.
Beauty cannot be rushed.

She moves the towel
further down,
rubs between her thighs.  

Even as a child
she imagines
he was impatient,
unable to wait,
unwilling to be kept
against his will
until the time was right.

She smiles.
She senses
the towel’s roughness,
the rub of skin.

She recalls the wedding night,
the shyness *******,
she blushing,
he awkward all
fingers and thumbs,
she turning her back on him

to put on her night dress,
he looking away,
unwilling to view,
she in bed
covered to the neck,
he *******
bit by bit
avoiding her eyes,

she studying
the ceiling
the patch of grey,

he with night attire on
climbs into bed,
she feels him near,
his body nigh touching,
his hand out stretched.

In the dark,
she recalls,
they fumbled
and searched
and touched,
with grunts
and moans,
and woos
and ahs,
the night went on

until sleep
eased them
to a settled bliss,
ending with
that sticking kiss.

Janice
sans red beret
walked with you
to Bedlam Park

where you swam
in the open air
swimming pool
(she swam

you tried
but failed)
there in her
green swimsuit

her arms pulling her
through water
her hands
pushing away

the water’s skin
while you stood
waist deep
gazing at her skills

her wet hair
her bright eyes
you gingerly standing
feet on the bottom

feeling the water’s
pull and push
come on
she said

try to swim
be brave
and you dived forward
into the water

and splashed
and sunk
like some broken boat
water in your eyes

and ears
you rose
helped by Janice
to the surface

choking
and spluttering
wiping water
from your stinging eyes

she had her hand
in yours
holding you steady
keeping you balanced

she apologised
for not helping
should have helped
she said

not just stood
and stared
and you gazed at her
through wet eyes

forming an image
making sense
of the shape of her
her eyes on you

her damp hair limp
against her skin
o mermaid of the deep
you said

where is your tail?  
and she laughed
and took you
by the hand

into the shallower water
her warm hand
in yours
her thin fingers

clutching
her damp swimsuit
dripping
try here

in less deeper water
she said
and let go
of your hand

and she lowered herself
into the water
and showed you how
to put your body so

and hands and arms
to move and legs
to kick and push
but all you could hold

in mind
could bring to bear
was her beauty
swimming there.

He was with her
when they came back
from the bar

the moon was out
but dark clouds
hid it now and then

and she walked
with a sway
singing bars
from some song
she liked

and he watched her
walking just behind
looking at her
looking about him
the streets
the street lights
yellow upon black
bright lights

and she said
this is it
this is what I like
being merry
being liberated
from my normal self

and he said
ok let’s get back home
take it easy
don’t what you falling
and breaking bones

she paused on the edge
of the kerb
and looked at the moon
look at that moon
I guess people in Russia
see the self same moon
as we do
looking up
and seeing the same
bright light
the same pits
on the moon’s skin

he said
come on Honey
lets’ get back
and he put his arm
through hers
and tried to move her on

hey hey
she said  
don’t pull me along
I want to see the moon

so he stopped pulling her
and walked on
and looked back
at her staring
at the moon
her voice singing
her body swaying

he walked on
hands in the pockets
of his coat
head down

wait
she called
wait for me
I don’t want
to be swallowed
by the night

and he stopped
and she ran to him
and put her arms
around him
and kissed his lips
and he could taste
the *****
the cigarettes

and he said
come on Babe
let’s go

and so she walked on
beside him
her body leaning
against him
her voice humming
a melody
her feet picking
places to tread

his lips having
the taste of her
on them
the feel of her
on his arm

her voice
humming still
echoing into the night  
hoping she’d be good
once home
hoping she’d stay awake
not fall asleep
but if she did
he thought
the *** would keep.

You entered the bar
at the base camp
outside Tangiers

the morning sun was out
like a fresh orange
on a blue plate of sky

some old Moroccan
was in a corner
playing a guitar

your mouth felt like
the inside
of an Arab’s sandal

Mamie was sitting
at the bar
on a wonky stool

you woke up then?
she said
after last night
thought you’d be out
for the count all day

no I can take
a good night out
you replied
taking the stool
next to her
and breathing in
the hashish air
and smell of salt
from the beach

the guy behind the bar
asked what you wanted
and you said
*** and coke
and a salad roll
and he went off

and you looked at Mamie
her tight curls
and snub nose
and interesting
fall into me
eyes

what time
did you leave my tent
last night?
you asked

when your tent companion
turned up and almost
got on top of me

ah yes
sorry about that
Will does tend to come
at awkward times
I think he went off
to a trip to Marrakesh
in the yellow
ex army truck

almost crushed me
she said

good while it lasted
then eh?

no it wasn’t
she said
besides you
were out for the count
after we did things

was I?

you know you were

don’t recall a thing
you said

thank you Mr. Romantic
she moaned

o come on Sweet thing
you know it
meant a lot to me
having you near

she looked at
the old Moroccan
playing the guitar
I am glad
he doesn’t sing too
she said

she sipped her Bacardi
and sat silent

the guy brought
your *** and coke
and salad roll
and you began
to eat and sip

can I have some
of your roll?
she asked

sure
you said
and broke off
half of the roll
and gave it to her

thanks
she said and smiled

you felt her knee
touch yours at the bar
naked flesh
on jean cloth
her jean shorts
ended
at her high thigh

you remembered kissing
that thigh
the night before
amongst other things

the smell of her perfume
and the mustiness
of the tent
the faraway voices
and guitar sounds

some party
at the beach
the night before

hoping no scorpion
had crept in
during the day

feeling her
beneath you
and the sound of sea
far off
and sight
of moon’s glow
through tent’s skin

some one sang
another laughed
some one puked up
away off
too much to drink

but you and Mamie
had a good night
you mused
I think.

It was off Harper Road
on some bombsite
houses half standing
half rubble
you and Jim
and some other kids
were climbing
amongst the ruin

the holidays just begun
the sun shining
on your heads

Coppers!
one kid shouted
and you all began
to climb out
of the ruined house
and onto the rubble

a police car had parked
on the edge
of the road
and two policemen got out

what you lot doing in there?
one of the coppers said
come on line up
the other said

so you all lined up
against the wall
surrounding the bombsite

what were you doing in there?
the copper asked

playing
Jim said
having fun
another kid said

don’t you know it’s illegal
to play
on theses condemned houses?
he said

didn’t know
a fat kid said
at the end

the copper
walked along the line
studying each boy in turn
asking each one
their name and address

you listened
sweating
your nerves on edge
your ears pricked
the answers the boys gave
were lies you knew
because Jim had said
Barny Broadbridge
and his address
was not were he lived

you
the copper said
what’s you name?

your mind went a blank
don’t know
you said

the copper smacked you
around the face
your name kid what is it?

your cheek stung
tears welled in your eyes
Brian Tolling
you muttered
saying whatever came
into your head

where do you live?
you made up a number
to a block of flats nearby

the other kids glared
at the coppers
as they walked
along the line

you saw a watery blur
of colours

right get off home
and if we see you
on here again
we’ll come and see your parents
get it?
he closed
his black note book
and they climbed back
in the car and drove off

up you copper
the fat kid said
lifting a finger
to the far away car

you all right?
Jim asked

you rubbed your cheek
blinked tears
out of your eyes
he came in to focus
yes
you said
didn’t hurt
frigging flatfoot

the other kids laughed
and the fat kid
patted your back
see you around
they said

and you and Jim
walked down
Rockingham Street
the sun peering over
the flats where
you did not live

back to Jim’s place
to look at his knives
and get on
with your schoolboy lives.

The sun shone bright
on the Saturday afternoon
as Helen put her doll
Battered Betty

on the bombsite rubble
off Arch Street
near the coal wharf
and sat down beside you

(crossed legged)
peering
at the bombed out ruin
of a nearby house

wonder what it felt like
being bombed?
she said
I mean

one minute
you’re trying to get
the kids to sleep
next minute

a ruddy great bomb
blasts you all
to Kingdom Come
you offered her

a sweet candy cigarette
from a blue and yellow packet
don’t know
you said

but my mum said
that when she was home
with my gran
during one bombing raid

they hid under
the kitchen table
with her baby niece Carol
Helen sat opened mouthed

her hand holding
the hand
of her battered doll
anyway

you went on
my mum’s stepfather
( her dad having died
from TB in 1936)

was under there too
but my mum said
he had his backside
sticking out

from under the table
as if
that was unbombable
Helen laughed

and so did you
bet it was horrible
to be bombed
she said

but I would have hated
being evacuated
from my mum
even for a day

she ******
on the sweet cigarette
held between *******
and stared

at the ruin
with half a roof
and two walls standing
revealing wallpaper

on the inside
of one wall
my gran said
you continued

an old couple
next to them
on hearing
the air raid siren

began to run
toward the bomb shelter
in the garden
when the old lady stopped

and the old man said
what you looking for?
my teeth she said
and he said

they’re dropping
ruddy bombs
not mince pies
Helen spluttered

into laughter
almost on choking
on the sweet cigarette
don’t

she said
I near wet myself then
and she clutched her doll
to her chest

patting its back
there there Betty
she said
it’s only a story

and you looked
at her small hand
tapping the doll’s back
the fingers tight together

love in each tap
a good mother
she’d make
you thought

with schoolboy love
looking at her profile
the thick lens
spectacles

the plaited hair
and her small hand
going tap tap
on the back

of the battered doll
in her flower skirted lap.

She was one of the vaudeville dancers
he supposed. He had drawn back the
curtain and she was sitting there on
the stall one leg crossed over the other,
in that skimpy dress, white lace up shoes.

He had apologised, blushed, was about
to draw back the curtain when she said:
Oh, no leave it be. And he had and stood
there, slightly open mouthed, mind ticking
over, eyes stuck on her fine legs crossed.

They were nice legs he thought. Her dark
hair, parted in the middle was not well
brushed; it seemed as if she’d just got up
from a bed. Maybe she had. She gazed at
him, her eyes looked foreign. Odd to think
that, he thought. He wanted to drink her in.

Take in each aspect of her just sitting there.
I’m on soon, she said. Yes, definitely an
accent, he thought nodding. I’m a dancer,
she said. O right, he said. He thought as
much; the dress and shoes, the way she
had about her. White ankle shoes. Lace ups.

Not the sort to wear out in the street, he
supposed. Are you to watch the show?
She asked. Yes, I am, he said, looking at
her lips, the way they spread under her
nose, held in place by her cheeks, he
thought. What would his mother say about
her short dress? Far too short, shows her
backside almost, she’d have said scornfully.

Yet he still gawped at her. Her ankles, knees,
thighs. What a feast for the eyes, he mused,
trying to look away, but held bound, fixed
as if by some glue. The tassels on the end of
the short dress moved as she stood up. She
stretched her arms. Shook her legs back into
life as if they had died. Must be ready, she said.

Warm ups. Yes, of course, he murmured, and
turned away, walking off, carrying the image
of her and her shoes and dress and her dark
hair into his mind. Fixed there. Captured each
aspect of her being, placed in some room of
memory, for later viewing, in his secret seeing.

Sunday was visiting day
the day when briefly
as the visitors arrived

the locked ward
was unlocked
nurses on edge

eyes on the doors
patients on beds
or in chair

in the lounge
drugged up
or not so

depending on mood
or demons or how
far down

the deep pit
they’d gone
you can’t recall

Christine’s visitors
can’t remember
anyone there

but your mother
came through
the unlocked doors

carry smiles
and pinned in concerns
soft voice

smelling of perfume
or fresh air coming in
standing there

then sitting in the chair
by the bed
handing over sweets

or books or wash stuff
conversations
of how are you?

and what’s the food like?
are you feeling better?
were noted

and exchanged
your mother worried
lines on her face

in her eyes
swan deep concern
you saw Christine

over the way
standing by the window
looking out

then by the doors
waiting
arms folded

her nightgown
held tight
about her

her slipped feet touching
then the visitation over
the visitors gone home

the doors locked
the ward quiet
the patients subdued

staring into space
or at each other
gazing

into eyes
as blank as each others
depression deeper

nurses doing rounds
giving out drugs
listening acutely

to souls in torment
with their sad
silent sounds.

She spat out
a string
of four letter
abuse words

followed by American *****
you stood at the bar
at the base camp
outside Stockholm

sipping a beer
Moira stood beside you
in grumpy mood
her Glaswegian tones

still in the air
others in the bar
gazed your way
amused

some giving
a small titter
if have to share a tent
with her one more night

I’ll suffocate her
with my sleeping bag
over her head
she said

you girls
don’t get on then?
you said
more expletives followed

after which she sipped
from her glass
of white wine
you lit a cigarette

all the time
watching her
listening to her
talking about

the American girl
the tour guide and driver
had picked up
in Hamburg

how she spent ages
in the shower
at base camps
across northern Europe

how she got her man
whom she slept with
and what she did
and leather

said Moira
her and her ****** leather
I know her sort
she added

you studied her
as she spoke
her short stature
her wild blazing eyes

her hair tight curled
her small ****
pressing against
her tee shirt

then she was silent
and leaned on the bar
sipping the wine
grimacing

staring at the mirror
behind the bar
maybe we could swap tents
you said

you share
with the Australian bore
and I with the Yank girl  
that’s a case

from the frying pan
into he fire
Moira said gruffly
I’d rather share my tent

with a shaggy dog
with fleas
she said
I guess

you thought
taking in her tight ***
some
are hard to please.

One Sunday
in the 1950s
your old man
took you

to London’s West End
it was summer
and the evenings light
and the streets busy

and crowded
and he took you
to amusement arcades
and cafes for refreshments

and ice creams
and you saw the actress
Billie Whitelaw pass
along a street

with two guys in suits
and she gazed at you
and you knew
who she was

and she looked at you
knowing you
had recognised her
you a young kid

in short trousers
and Brylcreemed hair
and she kind of blushed
and looked away

and you followed her
as she went off
behind you
and your old man said

who was that?
you told him
and he gazed back
probably taking in

her ***
her sway
but you thought
of the Monroe lady

in the film you saw
with those lovely eyes
and red lips
and later

next day
at school
when you told Helen
who you’d seen

her eyes lit up
behind her
thick lens spectacles
and she looked

kind of jealous
of some other
female attention
you’d seen

so you said
of course I paid her
no mind I only
thought of you

wishing you
were there
with my old man
and me

licking ice creams
and boozing back
the coke or lemonade
and she smiled

and her eyes
fell on you
with her jealous demon
laid.

Watching the ballerina
tying her ballet shoes
preparing for Swan Lake
you remembered

that time in London
when Judy was away
for the week in Italy
and you were held

by the black dog
its teeth holding
onto your soul
going to the coffee bar

in Leicester Square
sitting there
gazing out the window
watching the people

feeling the dark mood
deepen
waiting for time
for the ballet to begin

at Covent Garden
then you are there
sitting in your seat
surrounded by others

well dressed
high talk
posh tones
and you thought

you saw Judy
in the faces
that were there
even one

of the ballerinas
seemed to be her
the same hair
the figure similar

and when the lights lowered
and darkness held you
you thought of her
beside you

her perfume
her soft voice
but some other dame
sat there some brunette

some thin *****
dressed in blue
and yellow
then the music began

the Tchaikovsky
the black dog biting
and Judy in Italy
and you stuck there

at the ballet
some other time
some other year
and you watched

as the ballerina
having tied on
her shoes
stood and prepared

and stared
as you sat
thinking back
mixing it

with that depression dog
of black.

What you think
you see is a man
at prayer, but he
could be just a man

tired of war, eyes
closed, head in hard
hands, sitting there.
He sits in mud, his

uniformed backside
stained, smeared,
like a young boy
having played some

ball game in a muddy
field, with broken
wagons and dead
horses and men lying

all about, stuck in
or ****** in mud
of clay. What you
think you see is now

frozen in time, dead
men or horses counted
in millions far beyond
the mind’s conception,

lay scattered here and
there, as if some god
had cast a hand or arm
to clear (like some bored

child) his view of toys,
all games grown stale.
What you think you see
in sepia echoes through

the days of now and years
of yore, the folly, the all
unstoppable, called war.

A woman’s touch. Yet to
another woman applied,
towelling dry, older, hands

slightly more worn, eyeing
the young woman, secretly
wishing. The young woman,

naked except the pink bow
in brown hair, thinking of
something other, not sensing

anything of the woman drying,
the touch, the towel, is far
from her thoughts, maybe some

boyfriend and his recent deeds
or words or both. The bath
had been refreshing, the water

just right, the older woman
always has it so, the towel laid
out, the soap prepared, washing

the back, places she cannot reach.
The older woman seems to take
her time, drying each area of skin

with some daintiness, a delicate
touch, wanting more maybe or
nothing very much. The younger

woman, feeling dryer, more in
touch with self, thoughts ordered
into place, takes no notice of the

other woman’s rub of ******* or
under arms, no thought of hers at
all, no grace, no charms, the recent

boyfriend, he who made to her such
passionate entering and kissings,
she feels like a fatted calf, some well

stuff bird, pleased with her self, her
sense of need fulfilled, the pleasure
dome having been reached and done.

The older woman drying now the thighs
has no wish to end her task, no other love
or want, except what’s there before her eyes.

Saturday
shop busy
you with Dylan Thomas’s
Deaths & Entrances

poetry book  
tucked in
your inside pocket
of your brown jacket

Miss Croft
Saturday girl
dark hair
ponytailed

swaying
her tight ***
in her short skirt
up and down

the shop aisle
Duff the manager
bespectacled
with curly mass

of dark hair
standing there
cigarette in mouth
conversing

with a customer and wife
about which paint
went best
with what wallpaper

giving the dame
the eye
giving the charm
you tanked up

(you worked better
that way)
with some old couple
wanting curtains

to match
the wallpaper choice
the blue flowers
the pattern

the old guy gazing
at the Croft girl
the way
she wiggled her ***

her la-de-da tones
her bright eyed
expression
then she talked

to friends from college
more friends
than Trotsky
had enemies

standing there
hands on hips
tight tee shirt
small ****

and can you order this
in a light blue
the old dame asked
the blue here’s

too dark
the old guy nodded
his head turned
eyes on his wife’s

profile
sure sure
you said
controlling the slur

the beer taking hold
the old dame
seemed pleased
her husband gave

the Croft girl
another secret gaze
her tight *** moving
side to side

as she walked
the aisle
her friends departed
you watched her

with her bourgeoisie
life and ways
her small tight body
wrapped

like a dream
and the sale complete
the old couple
went away

through the business
of wallpaper
and paint
all of a Saturday.

Down the lane
behind the cottage
where you lived
you walked with Jane

the summer sun
beaming down
the birds in song
cows mooing

from the fields beyond
I can’t believe
you actually got
the cows in

the other day
she said
you a London boy
her eyes focused on you

her lips in smile
it was fun
you said
the cow man was helping me

of course but he said
I did well
she knelt down
by the small running stream

along the lane
you knelt beside her
she put her fingers
in the water

as it flowed through
her open fingers
you studied her fingers
and her hand

her face in profile
her dark hair
and her kneeling there
the smell of apples

and freshness
and you wanted
to kiss her
as she knelt

to put lips
to cheek
she broke the silence
what do you want to do

when you leave school?
she asked
the cowman asked me that
you said

what did you say?
she asked
said I wanted
to be a cowman

she smiled
what did he say?
he said want to get yourself
a proper job sonny

don’t to want to get stuck
on a farm all your life
what did you say?
she said leaning closer

her arm touching yours
I just said I liked the work
you said
she nodded

and you sensed
her nearness
her knee near yours
she stood up

and so did you
and walked on
she talked
of her father’s work

and her mother’s ways
and how she thought
her mother liked you
and you listened

to her words
and wanted
to hold them
and frame them

and to place them
in your heart
and mind
for always

the lane
the stream
the bird song
the long summer days.

Sidney was 5’2’
and weighed 200lbs
and was 79 years old

and each morning
you had to clean him up
and wash and dry
and powder him
and dress him
in his old clothes

but this morning
having done all that
he said
you don’t know
what war is like
you youngsters

he had broken
his usual silence
words instead of grunts
communication
instead of his own
quiet conversation
beneath breath

it’s not like it’s seems
in the films

I guess not
you said
and sat beside him
on the unmade bed

and he told you
of life in the trenches
of blood and guts
and men without arms
or legs or heads
lying there exposed

he paused now
and then
to look
at his arthritic hands
the fingers bent
the nails fresh clipped

he said
I stumbled
into this woods once
by mistake
and there they were
hundreds of bodies
mostly dressed in uniforms
bloodied some
but mostly just lying there
piled in some areas
like hunks of meat
and one of two
were by my feet
as if asleep

here he stopped
and looked at you
young as you
some were
fresh faced
blank of eye
sans gaze
sans life
some one’s husband
or lover or father
or brother

he paused
to stroked his head
with his bent fingers  

never forgotten that
he said
those carcasses
the silent soldiers
the forgotten dead

he was quiet after that
and you got him
off the bed
and on his way
on his frame
along the passage
to the dining room
shuffling
at his own pace
with short moustache
and war memories
lined
on his warrior face.

Christine sat
on the edge
of her bed

her white
dressing gown
wrapped about her

her hair unbrushed
she swung her legs
back and forth
like a child waiting
to play games

you sat
on the bed opposite
your borrowed
dressing gown
dark blue
you held tight
with your hands

as the nurses
had taken away
your belt and laces
in the locked ward

when I first had ECT
she said
they took me in that room
back there and laid me
on that black couch
and said it won’t hurt
it will help

she looked at you
her eyes focused
making sure
you were listening

she brushed hair
out of her face
it’s like being a ******
before ***
you don’t know
what to expect
she added
her voice quieter

she looked around
at the ward
others were elsewhere
or in their beds
or taking a shower

and that bit
when they put
the electrodes
each side of your head
and put that thing
to bite on

yes
you said
made me feel like
I was in a dentist’s chair
back as a kid
with the smell of gas
only there isn’t gas

no gas
she said interrupting
that’s right
just feels like it  

she took a deep intake
of breath
you watched her
her fingers held
the dressing gown
to her neck
the ring on her finger
she wouldn’t remove
even if the guy
didn’t show
for the wedding
she’d keep the ring
stuck there

like waiting to die
you said
and then they give you
the injection in the hand
a little *****
and the wave of nothingness
sweeps over you
and you blank out
and it’s all dark
and empty

she nodded her head
her eyes still glued
to you
then you wake
with a headache
like a huge hangover
without the *****
she said
looking away from you
her profile adding
to her beauty

and it didn’t work for me
she added
as a nurse went by
carrying blankets

me neither
you said
just the dreaded numbness
and the busted head

she got off the bed
and walked to the window
and you followed
standing beside her
looking out
at the trees
and fields
covered in snow

a tractor across the way
with gulls and rooks
following behind

and she touched
your hand with hers
the blind
leading the blind.

On that rattling train
and rocky bus
you went
with your mother

to the sanatorium
where your father
was shafted
with cancer

the bus
made you travel sick
the long drive upward
was lined with trees

and tall grass
the building
a one storey affair
rigid and unfriendly

stood silently there
you walked down
long white corridors
the smell added

to your sickness
the passing of rooms
and windows
and silence

mother said nothing
carry hope
in her handbag
and you waited

for the first sight
of your father
since he’d left home
a short while before

and there he was
in pyjamas
and maroon dressing gown
and slippers

pale faced
an old man
imitating
your father

death winged
and narrow shouldered
he stood
attempting a smile

the cancer his companion
creeping beside him  
there was greeting
and exchange

of kiss and hug
and you taking in
the wasting away
the lines on features

the grey hair
turning white
the hanging on clothes
he took you

to a room
where you all
sat alone
given up smoking

he said
too late I know
but it gives me
the final word

mother sat
and talked of him
and home
and the other kids

and the pet dogs
missing him
and you sat silent
seeking the right words

the thoughts muddled
the sight of him
a shock
how are you?

he asked
he’s travel sick
mother said
o that’s bad

he said gently
as though it mattered
in the range of things
the smell of death

and decay
the last goodbye
seeing him no more
beyond that day.

Between full moons
And new moons he lived
Half crazy, or so he said,
Putting that down as his
Excuse for his raving moods
Of pinch and punch whatever
Time of the month, but you

Thought it best to wait and see
If it would all go away or if he’d
Grow out of it like an old sweater
Or maybe have some religious
Conversion and be a better person,
But he never did, and the cruising
For a bruising, as he said to you,

Continued, the moods changing,
Darkening, the rows, the words,
The up you signs, the pulling down
Of blinds before the beatings began,
(That sort of man), the neighbours
Saying, yes, he’s a good steady type,
Wouldn’t hurt a fly, smiles and says
Hello, how do you do, and goodbye.

Between summer sun to winter death,
You waited, bided your time, watched,
Felt, ached, then one winter morning,
Out of the blue, he stopped hitting you,
You hit him instead and now he’s silent,
Good to be around, because he’s dead.

As you took
old Mr Wheale
to the lavatory

and sat
and watched
he didn’t fall

or slide
you recalled
the night before

lying in Mrs Tuba’s bed
the curtains drawn
against the night

the street lamps
shining through
the bed soft and wide

and she turning up
the Mahler 5th
and you thinking

of the parish priest
and what he’d say
if he could have seen you

there smoking
naked and bare
the book you’d bought

on the side
the Solzhenitsyn
gulag book

she wanted to read
the dresser
and chest of drawers

and photos
on the side
nearly done

Mr Wheale said
breaking through
your thoughts

his cataract eyes
staring into space
and you remembered

Mrs Tuba coming in
the room
dressed in her pink

dressing gown
open down the middle
her ******* inviting

her big blues eyes
smiling
turned up

the Mahler
she said
bought these two whiskies

and she laid them
on the side
and climbed

into her bed
I’m done
Mr  Wheale said

and so you did
what was needed
and helped him dress

and on his way
his metal frame walker
shuffled along

the passageway
the music of Mahler‘s 5th
a memory

Mrs Tuba
gone to sleep now
you guessed

the whiskies drunk
the *** forgot
a new day entered

the window on your right
swift it had gone
that ****** night.

Woolgar peered
through the wire mesh
at the girl’s playground
can see that girl you like

down there
he said
you walked
to the wire mesh

and stared through
see her?
he said
no can’t see her

there over by
that fat girl
with the blue
ribboned hair

you stared harder
they keep moving about
you said
she’s there

he said
poking his finger
through mesh
her with the dark hair

you peered
at where his finger poked
Jane was by the fence
playing jump rope

with two other girls
yes I see her now
you said
what’s she like?

Woolgar said
like?
you said
what do you mean like?

Woolgar sniggered
and gazed stupidly
through the mesh
you know

does she kiss
and such
and what’s it like?
that’s for me to know

and you to guess
you said
some say
girl’s lips

are like peaches
Woolgar said
or that they kiss
all wet and warm

you watched Jane
move the rope
around and around
with some other girl

while one other
jump high and laughed
does she have *******?
Woolgar asked

peering like
some peeping Tom
or is she flat as board?
Or don’t you know?

he asked
looking round at you
his eyes brown
and round

and aping dung
what’s it to you Woolgar?
you still ****
your mother’s dugs

or so I’ve heard
you said
seeing Jane
play skip rope

once again
you leave my mother
out of this
he said

rubbing his fingers
going red
walking off
muttering

and moaning
turning round
and *******
you turned

to gaze at Jane
once more
but the skipping girls
had gone away

to some other place
to skip and play.

Anne crutched her way
through the narrow path
and back gate behind you
on to the side path

that led to the beach
the sky was overcast
she moved up beside you
as you stood there

looking at the horizon
look at the sea
and sky and gulls
Skinny Boy

look at that wildness
breathe in the air
she said
fill your ****** lungs

with it
you breathed in deeply
smell of sea salt
filled you

if I had both my legs
I’d go out there
and swim
she said

she moved forward
until her foot
and crutches
touched the start

of the sand
come on Boy
breath it in
you breathed in

deep again
she stood there
her green skirt
billowing in the wind

her dark hair
blown about
this is ******* life
this is it

all I want now
is a tall ship
to sail her by
or so

the ****** poet
said somewhere
she said
you looked at her

standing like
some captain
of a ship
her skirt rising

and falling
carried by the wind
now and then
her stump showed

and her other thigh
with her white leg
what do you think Boy?
good huh?

yes
you said
breezy and fresh
you stood

trying to keep
your balance
your short trousers
moving in the breeze

the white tee shirt flapping
she crutched herself
onto the sand more
you followed

moving near her
she gripped
the crutches firm
we found that fish

on the beach
up there
you said
she looked

where you pointed
yes and they cooked it
for dinner next day
she said

and it was ******* rank
you laughed
and she grinned
it was up there

by that wave breaker
that you kissed me
she said
you made me

you replied
well you enjoyed it
didn’t you?
you nodded

the wind
carried her voice away
her words
were broken up

individual words
came here
and there
then away again

she looked up
at the darkening sky
o hell
she said

here comes
the ******* rain.

Jupp liked
the Whitmarsh girl
or so he said
hand at the side

of his mouth
whispered
as she walked
the corridor

from Maths room
to biology class
her friend the girl
with the teeth

like a horse
(Greenfield’s cruel
Description made)
Jupp eyed her greedily

her grey skirt
swaying
as she moved
the white socks

knee high
her hair in two
ribbon tied
bunches

he looked too shy
too outclassed
to make a move
you thought

from his ****** pose
and pitted flesh
I see her in my dreams
Jupp said

she likes me then
and speaks
Miss Whitmarsh
entered

the bio class
with friend
as you and Jupp
followed close

behind
what else
in his dreams
he does you

do not know
nor care
taking seats
with him

three desks away
him ******* up
his visual love
or lust

the former
you hope
and trust  
she took out

her flowered
pencil case
and unzipped
taking pen

and pencils out
and laid
on the desk
in front  

Jupp love ******
or drunk
sat eyes stuck
tongue protruding

the bio teacher
speaking
and pointing
lecturing

on some plant
she had
her red painted nail
moving along

is this love?
Jupp asked
this pain in chest
and heart?

you wondered
spying Miss Whitmarsh
if she had clue
of her secret lovers’ pain

or if she did
whether cared
or no
her pale features

her skinny frame
her slightly
pointed nose
which part it was

he loved
her all
or part
or all

of those?
who cared
you thought
or knows.

Mr Bedlows
showed you around
the old folk’s home
the day had begun

at the new job
the smell of *****
and old age
drifted by the nostrils

the dimly lit passageway
he opened a door
morning Mr Grigg
morning Mr Mash

he said
to the old men
sitting on beds
then off

you both went again
more doors opened
other old men
welcomed

downstairs and up
the passageways
like circles
of Dante’s Hell

the old men gazed
at you as you entered
their aged eyes
followed you

about their room
you the young guy
the wet-behind- the-ears
young thing

they’d seen wars
fought in trenches
seen men killed
blown apart

mind damaged
body’s crippled
soul’s laid bare
smoke and death

in the air
I’ll leave you with Sidney
Mr Bedlows said
and went closing the door

trapping you
with smell and age
and Sidney’s stare
half hour later

having cleaned him up
and washed and dried
and clothed him neat
you set him on his way

with walking frame
and slow pace
for him
another dreary day

for you the beginning
the other men
to coax
or dress

or wash
or comb the hair
or set them
on their walk

with old timers
chatter
or idle
long ago talk.

Look at her
Greenfield said
he was referring
to Miss Money

a girl who sat
two desks in front
hair light brown
drawn into a woven plait

at the back
bet she’s  
got **** on her
he said

you glanced over
your finger turning
the page
of the history book

some text
on the Tudors
some boring ****
who had six wives

or so you’d read
the girl was engrossed
in writing
hand gripping a pen

head slightly down
I wouldn’t know
you said
bet she has

Greenfield uttered
the history teacher
had his back
to the class

fingers with chalk
scribbling
on the board
you noticed

the girl’s neck
between blouse collar
and light brown hair
my cousin’s got *******

he said
saw them
when she was dressing
one morning

while straying
at her house
getting ready
for a wedding

he drawled on
you followed the text
with your finger
the second wife

had her head
chopped off
poor *****
you thought

Miss Money turned
her profile captured
ear
eye maybe brown

then turned
back again
sunlight
from window’s glass

blessed her head
but Greenfield talked
of her figure
and waistline

instead
making motions
with his hands
in the air in front

history
was lost on him
Miss Money
moved him more

at least
some aspects did
not the finer things maybe
but he kind of

wrote and made
his own
dull history.

Her breath smelt of peppermints
she leaned over you
on Mr Spark’s bed
where she’d pinned you

after creeping into the room
as you made his bed
her blue eyes
peered into yours

I want you
take me to cinema
she said sultrily
you felt her ****

pressing
into your white shirt
her hands either side
of your head

I’m kind of busy Sonia
you said
you can spare time
take me to cinema

she stated
you tried to move
but she’d
pinned you well

maybe at the end
of the week
you said
you say that

but you could be lying
she breathed
peppermint
invade your nose

her red lipsticked lips
opened and closed
I promise you I will
you said

your body
beginning to numb
you promise?
yes I promise

she lifted up a little
so you could breathe
if you lie to me
I will scream

and say you throw me
on bed for ***
she said
but I didn’t

you said
I know and you know
but who they believe?
she uttered softly

you tried to ease her off
but she pushed down harder
promise me?
yes

you said
what we go see?
whatever you like
she smiled

small white teeth
showed
anything I want?
yes anything

she moved off
of you and sat
on the edge
of the bed

as you got off the bed
and brushed down
your white coat
and straightened

your red tie
and smoothed down
the bedcover
that’d become creased

she sat looking at you
her blonde hair
pinned back
with hair grips

one leg crossed
over the other
a foot dangling
the black shoe

rising and falling
where you take me?
the Ritz cinema
there’s a good film on

you said
is *** film?
no war film
you muttered

looking at her
wondering
if you could make
the door before

she jumped you again
war film?
she said
is good?

is *** in it?
I guess so
you said
watching her foot

dangling up and down
good
she said
getting off the bed

we go then
at end of week?
yes
you said

and she kissed
your lips
with her bruising lips
of bright red.

Christina sat
on you lap
you sat
on the low brick wall

around the playground
leaning against
the wire fence
the summer sun

warming your head
as she sat
her grey skirt
drifted up

revealing thighs
over on the playing field
Goldfinch kicked the football
but missed the goal

(two coats put down
wide spaces apart)
and pushed his hands
in the air

with frustration
she leaned in close
kissed your cheek
her hair blocking

the view of field
her hands inside
your jacket
your one hand

about her waist
the other resting
on her skirt
covered thigh

there’s no where private
for us to be
she said
no nook or cranny

to be alone
her small ******* pressed
against your chest
her warm breath

invading your ear
I’ve heard some
go into the woods
over the way

you said
no good
she replied
prefects go there

too often
to be much use
she loosened her tie
and unbuttoned

her blouse
shifting on your lap
she set herself
more comfortable

the grey skirt
riding higher
showing more thigh
she pulled the skirt

down to her knees
as a prefect went by
catching her eye
you should be

on the playing field
not here
like that together
the prefect said

looming overhead
Christina got off
your lap
and brushed down

her grey skirt
with small hands
you stood up
giving the prefect

a small smile
and wandered off
toward where
Goldfinch played

with ball
with boys
you saw Christina
saunter away

her hips swaying
her hand
giving a wave
then she was gone

amongst the other girls
who stood and stared
at boys at play
her small wet lips

imprinted
on your cheek
the kiss would be
unwashed away

you blew
from open palm
a secret kiss
to touch her

as she watched
the young boys play.

Her husband failed
to give her this, this
embrace, this kiss.
Her lover, this other

woman, this one whom
she could explore, wrap
herself in, tongue, lick,
smell, was suddenly

revealed to her, at a party
of her husband’s, some
big do, some work related,
job promotion hogwash.

She almost dissolves in
this female warmth, this
female smell, this soft
flesh thing she has known,

yet misunderstood for so
long. Her husband’s ******
predatorial ways are over,
he can go find some other,

go to some girl at the office,
some **** he secretly (so he
thought) had bought. She
feels born again, as if erupted

from the womb a second
time, mouthed a fresh cry,
suckled at new ******* and
likewise the other hers, too.  

What would people say has
long since ceased to matter,
love’s intensity blows out
candles of such, puts far from

reach the narrow minded tongues,
the moralistic finger pointers.
They sleep together, eyes closed,
bodies wrapped about each the

other, dreams take on a new edge,
other shades and tones, nothing
of the old life, just this woman to
woman thing and loving moans.

A female Buddha,
the way she sat, not
love making, that some

other. Cross-legged,
he remembered her,
on that blue sofa, the

Mahler playing from
her hi-fi, her oval face,
soft features, that loud

laughter, the Glaswegian
accent cutting through
the attempted English

tones. The bottle of whisky
opened, the glasses filled,
supped, sipped or what

ever the word is, it happened.
It’s no good taking some
people out of the slums,

she said, you need to take
the slum out of the people.
She looked then nothing

like the former nun she
had been, he thought,
perfume invading the nose,

her hair piled in some out
of date Beehive, some
French queen prior to

revolution, she sat, glass
in hand, other plump
hand toughing his thigh,

rubbing her fingers up
and down. She wanted
to stir his pecker, wanted

motion through his jeans.
He listened to Mahler,
gazing beyond her at the

painting on the wall, that
tat she collected. Her
hand rubbed higher, her

soft tones suggestive, her
talk of slums and slum
dwellers put aside. An

evening of *** ahead, in
bed or on the sofa, with
the female Buddha, her

plump *******, thighs,
arms, maybe lost there
amongst the folds of flesh.

She despised his Marxian
philosophy, loved his
****** prowess, his proud

perfect pecker. He loved
her whisky, her soft to
touch skin, her *******

to allow him in. The female
Buddha gone now, her
heart gave out, he was told,

and looking back, years after
years, his youth misspent
at times, too much *****,

*** and moral lack, he had
moved on, improved, but
loved to smile and look back.

You entered the single
factory door
into a noisy
and busy shop floor

with a guy called Brian
who was older than you
and had a worn
and worried expression

a foreman came
and asked Brian to go with him
and set him to some job
over the way

then he came to you
and said
what’s your name?
Collins

you said
right Colin
he said
follow me

and you were puzzled
why he had called you Colin
as you followed him
down the aisle

between machines
and people
he introduced you
to a middle aged dame

with glasses
who was short
and dumpy
there was another dame there

who was thinner
and a bit younger
who smiled
the plump dame

showed you around
her department
and set you to work
on a drilling machine

where you worked
most of the morning
then you had to go
to the work office

where a dame sat
you gave her the job sheet
how long were you
on the job?

she asked
about 6 inches
you said
she looked at you

a hint of a smile
on her lips
how long?
she repeated

how long what?
you asked
how long in time
were you on the job?

she said slowly
you said
3 hours it says here
mmmm

she said
you’re new aren’t you?
no
you replied

I’ve been around
for 21 years or so
she gazed at you
with her dark eyes

her lips were about to speak
but she nodded
then shut
the slide window

leaving you staring
at the window glass
you walked back
through the aisle

towards the plump dame
and her department
ready for the next job
before lunch

hoping it wasn’t
another drilling operation
but assembly
or cranking

or any other job
than drilling
thinking of the dame
in the office

and something
more thrilling.

You walked down Bath Terrace
having been to Jail Park
on the swings
and slide with Janice

and she had her red beret
on the side of her head
like some French girl
I nearly bayoneted

my old man last night
you said
I had my toy rifle
he brought me

with the rubber bayonet
and I was charging out
of the sitting room
into the passage

and caught him
in the guts
as he entered the room
what you doing?

he asked
I was bayoneting Germans I told him
I’m not German he said
I’m your father

and he stormed off
into the sitting room
to his favourite chair
by the fire

and I stood there thinking
it’s only a toy gun
and I was only having fun
Janice looked at you

and said
if I’d done that
to Gran she’d have spanked
my backside

but you wouldn’t
have had a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
you said

girls don’t have rifles
with bayonets
I might have done
she said

ok
you said
you can borrow mine
and see what happens

no thanks
Janice said
I know what would happen
you climbed over

the metal fence
by Banks House
and sat on the concrete remains
of the bomb shelter

looking toward the coalwarf
where coal wagons
were being loaded
with black sacks of coal

and the horses stood there
in front patiently
eating from nosebags
Janice was sitting pretty

in her red beret
her hair tied
in a ponytail
her coat buttoned up

to the neck
talking about her gran
and the pet bird
in the cage

and you listened  
to her taking in
her hands on her knees
her small fingers

not the kind
to hold a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
more the kind

to hold a baby
or rock a cradle
or stroke brow
you wanted to ask her

for a cowgirl’s kiss
but didn’t know how.

He broke down
when his wife said
the baby in her
womb had died.

He seldom cried,
once when his father
was plucked with cancer,
another when he

thought she’d given
him the elbow before
he’d proposed, and
some kid stuff way back.

But this was a gut ripping
feel, as if some dark
hand had torn through
him and pulled at heart

and guts, no if or buts.
After she’d said it, her
words chiselled deep,
through bone and skin,

deep down within, and
he pictured the baby,
once kicking, moving
tiny hands and fingers,

pushing its closed eyes
against womb’s wall,
mouthing words unheard,
unknown, small not yet

grown, now, he imagined
still unmoving maybe
floating, he didn’t know,
just thought things. His

other babies had come
and grown and climbed
and spoke, but not this
one, there was the rub,  

there the choke. Górecki’s
Symphony no 3 was in
the background piping
through the speakers, he

had walked off to be alone,
the window showed trees,
the lawn, birds, sky, him
and Górecki, the music and
his own gut wrenching moan.

Miss Ashdown
faced the blackboard
and chalked leaves
and buds and stems

her fat behind waddled
as she moved
from side to side
and Carmody said

if you peep through
the small hole
in the toilets
you can see

into the girl’s cubicle
and see their *******
you stared
at the teacher’s behind

half listening
to Carmody’s yak
she moved the chalk
along the board

a stem appeared in green
her plump arm supported
her chubby hand and fingers
Carmody went on and on

about what he saw
in whispering voice
now
Miss Ashdown said

turning around
her ******* bulging
behind her purple dress
here I have drawn the stem

of a flower and here
she said
pointing to the blackboard
is the bud and here is the stem  

and so she went on
pointing out each aspect
of the nature study plants
she’d drawn

see her down the front
with her pink bow
and ginger hair?
Carmody asked

you nodded
to his whispering voice
your eyes on the girl
at the front desk

next to Helen
she wears blue *******
Carmody informed
saw them this morning

you saw the girl
raise a hand to ask
questions about the plants
or to be excused to urinate

her blue cardigan covered arm
lifted the small hand
waving in the air
and here

Miss Ashdown said
is the root layout
see how its spreads
to gather food

and moisture
to the plant
she ignored
the raised hand

and the blue cardiganed arm
went down and out of view
and her over there
Carmody said

by the chart of trees
she wears white
you moved away slightly
from Carmody’s head

remembering
some one had said
that morning
he had fleas.

If you were good and they thought
You’d be safe to walk along to the drugs
Hatch and pick up your own batch of mind
Snatchers, then that was ok, because
It meant they trusted you (fools) and you
Could wander along the corridors and gaze

At others who were on their own way to Hell
And back and sometimes not back at all,
But in some perpetual purgatory where
They were poked and tormented and maybe,
If lucky, purged and delivered sane
(What that meant no one said

Or maybe knew) but if they thought
You bad and unsafe, you’d not be
Allowed out of the locked ward,
But have to sit or wander around
And around the ward or adjoining
Rooms pulling faces at yourself in

Mirrors or windows, or arguing with
Others, nurses, or the quacks with
Their dark eyes and foreign accents,
Until the day’s light crept off,
And the night and lights out call,
And strange bedfellows came in

With the mutters and cries along
The watchtower where the night
Staff peered, sighed and smoked
And cursed and drugged you
And others (not themselves),
And too often joked amongst

Themselves like hyenas picking
Over some corpse; except these
Were alive, if living is what it was
They did, behind the tall walls
And high windows, with the endless
Hum of human voices, of the asylum.

Saturday afternoon
cycling up a 1in 6 hill
then along the road
toward the farmhouse

you dismounted
and laid your bike
against the fence
and waited

to get your breath back
the farmhouse door opened
and Mrs Putt came out
and said

Jim and Pete are out I’m afraid
her daughter Monica
appeared by her side
they’ve gone out

with their older brother
Monica said
ok
you said

tell them I called
sure I will
Mrs Putt said
I can go on a bike ride

with you if you like
Monica said
Benedict won’t want to have you
to drag along with him

Mrs Putt said
Monica pulled a face
and pouted her lips
I don’t mind

you said
better than riding alone
well if you don’t mind
Mrs Putt said

mind you behave
yourself young lady
she said
and went indoors

and closed the door
just get my bike
Monica said
and went back behind

the farmhouse
you looked around
the farmhouse
and the surrounding fields

and trees and waited
after a few moments
she was back
riding her bike toward you

where we going?
she asked
lets go see the peacocks
along Sedge lane

you said
and so you got on your bike
and off you both rode
she beside you

in her summery dress
and sandals with her
brown hair tied
in bunches

you in jeans
and open neck
white shirt
the sun bright

and hot above you
the birds flying
and calling
the clouds puffy

and white
I’ve always wanted to go
bike riding with you
Monica said

but the boys don’t let me
but I am now
you nodded and smiled
wondering Jim and Pete

would say if they knew
she’d got to go
bike riding with you
she chatted on about Elvis

and the film in town
and how she’d like to go
but no one would take her
and how her brothers

teased her
and her mother
nagged her
after a while

you came to the peacocks
in a wire cage
by a large house
just off the lane

aren’t they beautiful?
she said
peering through the wire
her fingers holding on to

the cage
standing beside you
yes they are
you said

but of course
the **** bird
has the beauty
the hen

is just dull
and ordinary
odd that
she said

wonder why?
don’t know
you said
I’m not dull

and ordinary am I?
she asked
looking at you
sideways on

no
you said
you have
your own beauty

do I?
yes you do
and she blushed
and looked away

and the peacock
called out
and moved off
opening its colourfulness

and Monica did a twirl
making the patterns
move
on her twirling dress.

Miss Billings leaned
against the doorframe
looking at Mr Fredericks
pushing a broom

on the forecourt
of the petrol station
look at the old ****
pushing broom

she said
it’s his way of getting you
to do the job kid
you looked out

the glass front
as Mr Fredericks limped
pushing broom
I didn’t see him

go out there
you said
he probably sneaked out
she said

does it all the time
it makes him feel good
to see you go
creeping out there

she pushed her glasses
up the bridge of her nose
and put her hands
on her hips and did

that Monroe thing
she did quite often
you went out
to the forecourt

and said to Mr Fredericks
I can do that
I can push the broom
he handed you the broom

and limped inside
without a word
you swept along
the edge of the forecourt

Miss Billings moved
outside a bit
and said
told you kid

that’s the way he is
bet he don’t do that
when he beds his wife
or maybe he does

who knows
and she walked off
her backside like
a poor man’s Monroe

swaying side to side
and you watched her go
standing holding
the broom

the red cardigan
the white overalls
the black stockings
and then she had gone

into the back office
through the swing door
time to get on
with sweeping

you thought
but her swaying backside
lingered in your mind
her poor man’s Monroe

right down
to her blonde hair
and the way she stood
you’d be her

Clark Gable
(in miniature)
if you could.

After the bath the drying of,
the white towel under the
arms, over arms and *******,
between thighs, all over until

all dries or near so, and while
drying, she thinks of the long
afternoon spent, the meal, art
gallery and back to the hotel

for *** and talk and *** again.
She smiles, drying along her thigh,
here where he put his lips, kiss
planting, lips damp and wet, his

tongue lick lick, she laughs softly,
dries her buttocks, rubs and rubs,
and him reciting some short *****
poem, tapping his fingers along her

spine. She pauses the drying of, sits
and recalls the kisses set, the places
laid, the excitement caused and
raised and she in giggles near to

wetting and he laughing. After
the bathing, the rumination and
towelling all over, skin rubbed,
bath oils, powder, remembering

embraces, touching in places (what
would Mother have said?), and
he running finger along her nerves
and setting her juices to flow, then

have to leave, said he, have to go,
then gone, bed empty, space vacated,
scent left, odours lingering, still on
fire, unsatisfied desire. She sits and

puts down the towel, takes cigarette,
lights, inhales and thinks on and when
next and where, and if in truth, he’ll
come and (God be praised) ever be there.

Christina met you
on the playing field
after lunch in recess
the sun was warm

butterflies went by
clouds white puffs
moved over head
I saw you playing cricket

this morning
from the classroom window
during domestic science
Christina said

standing there
in your whites
your hands behind your back
looking bored

if I had known you were watching
I’d have waved
you said
you were not long batting

she said
after sitting down on the grass
pulling you down beside her
by the hand

no not my best performance
you said smiling
how good
is your best performance?

depends what I’m doing
you said
but not batting?
she asked

no not batting
you replied
looking at her hair
dark and well kempt

her lips parted just so
her white teeth showing
you kiss well
she said suddenly

do I?
you said
yes you do
but you could always do

with practice
yes I suppose so
you said watching Rolland
kicking ball with other boys

across the way
your sister said
you keep my photo
on the bedside cabinet

by your bed
Christina said
yes I do
not my best photo

but it’s the only one
I could sneak out
of the house
without the parents

noticing
Rolland scored a goal
passing the ball
by a kid between

two coats
do you kiss it at night?
she asked
kiss what?

the photo my photo?
only if my brother’s not looking
you said
but otherwise you do?

yes long as wet
you said
and she laughed
and crossed her legs

and you caught a glimpse
of her thigh
I’d like to take you home
for lunch again soon

if I can get my mother
in a good mood
not when she’s depressed
she said

that’d be good
you said
she leaned forward
and took your hand

and drew you near her
and kissed you
on the lips
girls nearby giggled

and you looked over at them
feeling shy but warmed
don’t mind them
she said

they’re just green
with envy
you looked away
from the girls

and saw Rolland
score another goal
and a cheer went up
but they were lost

from view
when Christina
with feverishly hot lips
kissed you.

Prayers will help, the pastor said.
Hands joined, rest on her stomach,
the blue dress, neat and clean, her
hair set just so. Eyes closed, lips

mouthed prayers. Behind closed eyes
memories stirred, waking giants,
deep feelings woke from dark sleep.
Light from open window warmed

eyelids, skin, hands. She saw behind
lids, shadowy figures, deeds done.
Some other place, other time, all
remembered, recalled. She bit her

lip between teeth. Sensed the smell,
familiar scent, odour more. His not
hers. Side by side, smells, memories,
deeds and music, sensations and

feelings of uncleanness. Just this
once he had said. Just the once.
More after. Each time deeper, more
hurtful. None had known. So said.

Some must have. Time and tide.
She felt sunlight on cheek. Eyes
behind lids moved.  Shadows lingered,
dark room brought sweat and damp

beneath armpits. Clothes removed,
by whom? She or another? Where
was Mother? Father lost at sea. No
return, body lost, sea swallowed.

The bed warm, shutters closed, lie
still, said he. There was that candle.
Yes, remembered that. Light moved
in draft’s touch, slight, not overmuch.

She sensed even the now the then’s
feel, the touches, the pains, thrusts.  
Bathing brought no cleanness, no
undoing, no removing from mind’s

surface the worms of dark deeds.
Prayers will aid, pastor claimed,
what he didn’t know of, just general
stuff, depression, sadness on skin’s

surface, bags under eyes, weeping
over meals.  Dressed such as she did,
plain, no frills or glamour or over
the top colours and patterns. Not

wanting to attract, she clothed dull.
She had been undone, ill used, nightly
mucked, and unknown to Mother, ******.

Outside the church
after the Sunday service
after singing
in the choir

Judith followed you
out of the vestry
into the daylight
amongst the gravestones

at the back
of the church
where she stood
looking around her

with you at her side
you oughtn’t to have done that
she said
what?

you said
put that button
in the collection box
when it came around

the choir stalls
I left my collection money
in my coat pocket
you said

but a button
she said
better to have put nothing in
than that

a black bird settled
on the top
of a gravestone nearby
then flew off

you’re right
you said
I ought not
to have put it in I’m sorry

it’s not me
you have to say sorry to
Judith said
it’s God

whom you defrauded
she turned
and looked at you
with her big blue eyes

and that look she had
when she was disappointed
anyway
she said

I still love you despite
you defrauding God
of his collection pence
come on you two

her sister called
from the side
of the church
aren’t you coming home

the bus will be here soon
ok we’re coming
Judith called back
her sister and yours disappeared

and you said
I don’t deserve you
or your love
no you don’t

she said
but there you are
when can we ever choose
whom to love

we either love
or we don’t and I do
and she kissed your cheek  
and took your hand

and you walked
by the gravestones
along the narrow pathway
by the side

of the church
and I love you too
you said
softly walking

through the midst
of the buried
and dead.