We Didn’t

I sensed that you would have if you could have but you didn’t.
I felt that I could have if you did but you didn’t.
I looked away as I spoke but you didn’t.
You brushed your hair from your face but I couldn’t.
You might have if I’d asked but I daren’t.
I liked how I ate as best I could have but you didn’t.
And, as you ate, I said what I said but shouldn’t.
You touched me twice as I did but I didn’t.
As you left I wanted you to stay but you didn’t.
I wanted to hug you but you kissed me twice so I couldn’t.
I felt that you might have if you’d stayed but you didn’t.
So – we could have and maybe we should have but we didn’t

Just a whisper of remembrance,
A brief touch on my shoulder,
And there you are!
Smiling, enquiring
Listening, reacting,
I shall let you go now
To be with them,
Your family,
Who love you so.
Your blood is their communion
What joy, what warmth,
You gave them and give them still.
How fortunate are they and we
To hear your whisper,
To feel your touch,
To love and be loved.

It was only a moment
No more
I mean, how long does a moment last?
She was standing in the kitchen
Near the sink
Next to me
Facing away
I took a step back
She turned on her heel
I happened to be holding my left hand about level with her waist
It was almost a dance step
We did not touch
And then it was over
I carried on past her
I don’t think she noticed
She had her back to me
It was only a moment

In my dreams
They skim across the turf,
Like white swans,
Weaving patterns with the ball of brown leather.
Mackay with chest puffed out, strong and hard
Blanchflower threading the ball through enemy lines
To the Welsh wizard, Jones
Who turns on a sixpence,
Leaving the defender flat on his back.
The ball floats into the box
The crowd lurches forward as one,
Willing the burly Smith to plant it into the net.
It groans as the ball is punched away by a desperate goalkeeper,
It spins high into the sky
And for a moment,
It is lost in the glare of the floodlights
But one man keeps his eye firmly on the ball
The tall, noble Norman leaps into the air
And we hear the thud as he heads the ball back
From whence it came,
Thousands cheer and then weep with wonder
As the Ghost, White, appears from nowhere
To cosset it with his right and flick it with his left
Into the path of Greaves who turns to acknowledge the roar
Even before it crosses the line.
He runs to the centre circle,
His hand outstretched, to thank
The mighty centre half
Who stands like a sentry at the castle gate
All in white – white shirt, white shorts, white socks –
Apart from the cockerel sewn in blue onto his heaving chest,
Which encases the throbbing heart
That now beats no more
Except,
In my dreams.

The boy pressed his palm on the glass,
It seemed warm against the hand of his father,
Who stood on the platform,
Looking at the face of his son,
Perhaps for the last time.
Be well! he shouted
Look after mama!
His son called back
He heard no words,
But understood as thin arms crossed a chest,
Heaving with sobs.
The man could not bear to think
He would never hold that small body again,
Never lift it onto his shoulders
Never see it grow.
His pretence of bravery,
Conjured by his smile,
Deserted him as the train lurched forward,
Then stopped cruelly,
Revealing the desperation in his heart.
He swallowed his tears
And shouted again,
Goodbye my boy!
There was no respite this time,
The carriage accelerated away,
Taking his son to a new life,
A new history.

The sun paints shapes of silver
On the water,
As it rushes over the pebbles,
Singing a melody,
Never heard before or since.
It is the end of life,
in its present form.
He goes now to a place
With neither past nor future,
He will feel exultant,
Vital and valiant.
You shall know this,
Because whenever you think of him,
He will be that way.
There will come a day
When you too will join him,
In that timeless state,
Where no wars are fought,
Where sunrise marks not a beginning,
Nor sunset an end.
Upon the sound of the gentle bell,
You shall go quietly,
To leave us to wonder,
Until we take our turn,
To roll out the blanket
To sit with you among “sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers”,
While listening to the words,
Full of meaning,
That no-one understands,
No-one hears,
Until the bell chimes.

The nightingale sings
Beneath a silver moon
It is a song of melancholy
It falls upon my ear
Like a lover’s whispers,
Urgent and persuasive.
It is your happiness
That I want most of all
I see it in the frames of old films
In the swing of your hips
The melody guides me through the dark
To the beat of the crunch of the deadwood
Until I reach the water’s edge.
You are there;
The reflection of your body,
Shimmering in the ripples fed by the breeze
Which breathes over the lake,
Disappears as you push forward,
Searching for what you have no longer.
I stand and watch for a while
Then move on
For I have nothing to give
Only the song of the night bird
Over which I have no power
The cool water strokes you
Not as once I did
For in those days
I gave you your happiness
That happiness
Which now I want most of all