It's raining
and I see Yiska
in the assembly hall
after lunch

other kids are there
in groups or walking
utterly bored
a few prefects

wander about
on the look out
I go stand beside her
I hate the rain

she says
means we're stuck in
all break then
more boring lessons

the corridors
are packed too
kids passing
back and forth

teachers on
their way places
I say
she stares out

at the rain falling
can see you and talk
but that's it
too many eyes

to do anything else
she says
and the gym's
got kids in it

doing things on the ropes
and mats
keeping fit freaks
I see channels

of rain running
down the window pane
so close yet
so far

I say
meaning?
she says
both here close

but far from doing
anything
I say
she looks around her

at the kids passing
at the groups of girls
talking by the stage
a few boys

swapping cards
by the far off wall
I could have gone
home to lunch

but I didn't want
to get soaked
going home
so I stayed

she says
I recall the time
she took me home
to her place

and her mother
was in a mood
and said little
but I did get to see

Yiska's room
but that was all
just the bed there empty
and her mother calling

where are you
and I want to kiss
her beside me
but can't

what can
a 14 year old boy do?

It looked like rain.

Sky dark and dim.

Yiska stood
in the playground
waiting to see Benedict
get off the school bus.

She needed to see him
before lessons began
or there would be
little chance if it rained.

She had prayed
-at least in mind-
for dry weather
and clear skies,
but it didn't
seem promising.

Kids passed on
their way into
school playgrounds:
boys into theirs,
girls into theirs.

Why couldn't
they mix?
She mused.

One school bus
came in,
but not his,
his was a different bus
than that which arrived.

More kids walked past.

She sighed.

Scratched a thigh,
brushed fingers
through her hair.

Then it came in
around the bend.

She searched
the windows,
hoping he
was coming,
hoping he'd
be first off
not last as he
was sometimes.

He was last,
head down,
hand in pockets,
looking at the ground
in deep thought.

She hoped he'd
looked up as
he went by.

She hoped.

She wondered.

Benedict,
she called,
peering through
the wire fence.

He looked up
and smiled.

Can we talk?
She asked.

Yes, sure,
he said
and he followed her
along the fence
as she looked
for space where
it was free of girls.

Looks like rain,
she said,
looking at the sky,
then at him.

Yes, it does,
he said,
peering at her
through the fence,
wishing it wasn't there.

Won't see you much
if it rains, if at all,
she said.

He leaned near
as he could,
poked a finger
through a hole
and she touched
his finger with hers.

No, unless we
arrange to meet
some place
in the school
at lunchtime.

Yes, but where?
She said,
getting her lips
as close to the fence
as was possible.

He leaned in closer
their lips touched
between the small gap
in the wire fence.

Gym?
He suggested.

Too busy,
she replied,
always keep-fit freaks
in there lunchtimes.

He mused feeling
her lips again.

Warm, wet.

A bell rang.

They parted
and she said,
look out for me.

He nodded
and the girls lined up
in classes.

He walked
off quickly
into the boys playground
around the school building,
thinking of her,
sensing the dampness
of her lips on his,
taking one last glimpse
of her as he passed,
the bell
was still ringing,
but he couldn't
be arsed.

Benny's the new boy
in class
he sits at the back

with some kid
called Rennie
while the teacher

Miss G
yaks on
about Schubert

or some feller
putting on
some LP

as they sit
and put on
interested faces

the girl who
smiled at him
on the school bus

is there
looking over at him
beaming like

a new sun
her eyes bright
as fresh stars

he looks
at her briefly
then looks away

storing her eyes
for some
other day.

Yehudit likes
the new boy
on the bus
she smiled has

he got on and
watched him walk
to the back
of the school bus

and sit in
a side seat
now she sits
at the front

of the bus
thinking about him
now and then
she looks back

over her shoulder
but he's looking out
the window
not at her

so she looks
forward again
musing on
what his name maybe

and whether he'll
be the type
she wants or likes
he looks good

the quiff of brown hair
the hazel eyes
-she gawked him good
as he got on board-

and he had that
Elvis smile
-feels goosebumps-
she thrusts her hands

between her thighs
and smiles to herself
in anticipation
scenery goes by

trees
hedges
fields
cows in the field

telegraph poles
birds in flight
in the sky
but all she

can think on is
what is his name?
and wondering
if he is looking

at her now
but she guesses
not somehow.

Lizbeth finds
dinnertimes
a right chore

sitting there
at the oak
table with

her moody
mother there
facing her

her father
glum as hell
beside her

and Lizbeth
trying hard
to ignore

both of them
its beef stew
thick gravy

and drowned out
vegetables
you're quiet

Mother says
anything
wrong with you?

nothing's wrong
Lizbeth says
gazing at

the beef stew
you've a mood
I can tell

Mother says
if the girl
wants silence

why complain
Father says
I know her

and you don't
Mother says
to Hubby

Lizbeth stares
at Mother
I'm just on

nothing else
Lizbeth moans
on the rag

Auntie's come
sandwich week
THAT'S ENOUGH

Mother shouts
rattling
the windows

I won't have
you talking
like that here

at mealtimes
it's not nice
Lizbeth stares

at Father
as he mouths
the beef stew

in silence
did you know
Lizbeth says

that Tudor
King Henry
the 7ths

mother was
married at
12 years old

and had him
at 13
Mother sighs

your point is?
that's my age
she sprouted

her king sprog
at my age
Mother glares

at her child
with her dark
angry eyes

Lizbeth thinks
of Benny
pretending

he's upstairs
in her room
stark naked

all waiting
eat your stew
Mother says

no more talk
of those things
outside it's

countryside
fluttering
butterflies

a bird sings.

You have seen flowers fade,
Grown men falter, hard rain
Against bedroom windows,

Felt the numbness of the still
Born babe, sensed the slap
Across the face from Mother’s

Hand, felt the wind of time
Finger your hair, your lover’s
Kiss dry on the brow. You have

Known the hammer blows of
Love, the silence of the night
Alone, the empty bed of lust,

The tiredness at dawn. You
Sought unconditional love,
But found only the love with

Strings attached, with a price
Tag on the gift of love and touch
And maybe promises. You have

Felt the dead baby fall, the womb
Ring empty in the troubled nights,
The poxed phallus between the

Thighs, the sour kisses of long
Betraying love. You have played
Bach until the ears bled, played

Cards with a drowned woman,
Dreamed of the sister you never
Had, dreamed of the baby you

Lost, felt the baby **** on the
Dug, sensed the dream fade to
A dead baby’s coffin. You sleep

And you wake, you want to live
And want to die, you want to be
Forever young, a perpetual mother,

A constant lover, an untroubled
Daughter, not be lonely, left in
The dark, sacrificed on someone’s

****** altar. You are and am not,
Born to be, then left to rot, you
Want your mother’s embrace,

Want certainty, want undying
Love, God’s redeeming grace.

I know your final days,
my son, by mental rote,
from Thursday to Monday,
from being unwell
to the last seconds dying,
like a child learning
a new nursery rhyme
note by note,
until it's unforgettable,
stuck in each particle
of cells and brain,
bringing thoughts
of disbelief
and punch hard pain.

Sleep seems
the only comfort,
that lying down,
snug between
cloth and warmth,
mind drugged to
a doped up
momentary
forgetting or easing,
but still it's there
when we awake,
the sense of loss,
that utter disbelief,
that deep down
cannot be hidden grief.

I wish I were
more Stoic like you,
my son, my deep philosopher,
my silent one;
wish I had some
philosophic remedy
to cure the ache,
to soothe the mind,
some crutch or stick
to tap around like
one who's blind,
but I have none,
none that will ease
or remedy the ill
of your departure,
none to fill
the huge chasm
between you there
in Death's hold
and God's grace
and me left here
sensing loss
and the cold breeze
of death's breath
in my ageing face.