At pond she undressed,
Clothes fell as joyful sun rose,
Blushing— twice naked.

One last winter walk—
Little clouds falling all round,
Snowfields between us.

She rises from bed and stares
out the window. Another day.
No new horizons. Why do
people talk such crap, she muses,

senses the hangover bite in.
He said it was just a *** thing,
no strings, see what a new
tomorrow brings. Her mother

had this thing about what the
neighbours said, how things
looked from another’s perspective.  
There is a damp patch where

her hand has touched, blood,
bright red. She sees him or rather
his outline in the dark of the night
before. All ten minutes of excitement,

a two-bit joy. Her hand runs over
the patch, feels the stickiness.
Depression digs in its feet, plunges
in its dark claws, rips through her

sense of being, sees the outside
city, no real care, no pity, just what
is she seeing? Shadows and outlines,
people, cars, streets, sun, clouds,

business out there. She wants her
mother back, the loss of all those
years ago, lingering in the back of
her mind and center of her heart.

Depression and the black dog tear
All things and love and life apart.

Julie sat on one
of the fountain walls
in Trafalgar Square
and lit a cigarette

she looked about her
as if she were onto
something harder
as if she had some one

looking at her
from some secret place
you gazed at her
unused to seeing her

not in her hospital
dressing gown
and slippered feet
her hair had been brushed neat

and makeup applied
and she said
I was picked up here
some months back

by some guy
who wanted ***
he thought
I was a pro

and the things
he asked for
god that was the worse
and with that

she paused
and stared at the Square
at the people
and the pigeons

and she inhaled deep
and then exhaled
blowing the smoke
out of the corner

of her mouth
like you’d seen done
in the movies
what did you say

to the guy
who picked you up
and what did he want
you to do?

she looked at you
her eyes scanning
your features
and then leaning closer

she said
I told him I wasn’t
a ***** and to go off
some place else

you watched her fingers
holding the cigarette
the way she held it
between her fingers

as if it was some
precious item she’d found
what did he want you to do?
you asked

he wanted ***
in all my orifices
she whispered
before inhaling again

the cigarette was clamped
between her lips
and she rubbed
her fingers

on her jeans
she ******* up her eyes
against the smoke
my grandfather said

if it wasn’t for ******
more women
would be *****
and attacked

you said
that guy was a creep
he smelt of strong aftershave
and body odour

she said
what a combination
you said
she stumped

the cigarette ****
onto the wall
and flicked it
across the Square

let’s go and view the art
in the Gallery behind us
she said
and you followed her

to the Portrait Gallery
her buttocks swaying
like some ship at sea
the jeans tight

and clinging
and across the Square
church bells were pulled
and were ringing.

My hands are raw and cracked like wind and wood,
My arms, they sway and dance all day in my boat,
My neck is sore from watching you, above me play,
You, great mountains of tree and stone, give me hope.

Memories smoulder,
Cold searing flame never doused,
Burning touch of her.

.
I row beneath you on the ancient lake,
Before sun arrives and after he is gone,
I will still be rowing even in my dreams,
Great yellow hills, my work is never done.

Those days are over now
you and your mother

sitting in the garden
she with her posh lady hat

and you in your cap
to keep the sun

from your balding head
she maybe muttering

but mostly still
and quiet and looking

as best she could
at the birds coming and going

as they picked up bread
now she is still

and silent once more
quietly dead

and you sit no more
in the garden

in your cap
and she

in her posh lady hat
with the sun

on your head
she is silent now

forever gently
peacefully dead.

Look at that Tortoiseshell
Jane said
as you stood
in the churchyard

of Diddling Church
you watched
the butterfly
pass by

and took in
its beautiful
colouring
don’t you just love butterflies?

she said
holding her hands
together as if
she were about

to pray
she was wearing
a short sleeved
flowery dress

and her dark hair
had a pink slide in it
which you gazed at
as she turned her head

to follow the progress
of the Tortoiseshell
along the sky
Never saw many butterflies

in the part of London
I came from
you said
mostly white things

with patterned wings
well now you can see
many different kinds
she said

turning to look at you
her eyes settling on you
like the butterfly had
on the flowers

in the churchyard
sure I can
you said
maybe I’ll get a book

on them
you added
she smiled
and came to you

and took your hand
and you sensed
her warmness
in your hand

felt her skin
touching yours
and she led you
over the grass

and you both lay down
a little distance
from the nearest
gravestone

and she said
my daddy says
the sky above
our heads

is the promise of Heaven
and you gazed at her
as she studied
the blue sky and white clouds

moving above
and you sighed softly  
at her nearness
and an unfathomable love.

Grief tests ones faith,
Mrs Mullins said.

Her son was dead;
killed in the war.

Makes you wonder
how a loving God

can take away
the one you love

and what the reason is
and what for.

Maybe,
her six year old

daughter said,
He loves him more.