I seem to have inherited
your Che Guevara tee shirt,
red and black,
with the huge
Legends lettering
and portrait,
black on red.

Washed and folded,
I gave it a squeeze,
and held it to my chest
(wanting you back,
my son, and all the rest).

Sometimes I think
we shared the same heroes,
similar, more similar
than I ever thought before,
reflected in the tee shirts
you bought and wore.

I am still making
my way through
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
the humour, insight
and images raised,
have humoured me
at a time I need,
from dark thoughts,
guilts, on my time
and mind, like maggots
they have fed and feed.

I did think
I would talk to you
the following day,
before the coma,
the silence of you
contrasting the ever
sounding machines,
the dials, the lights,
and that, and other
images, keep me
from sleep at nights,
(hence the need
of the sleep
inducing pill).

I seem to have inherited
the black and red
Che Guevara tee shirt
you used to wear,
and when I hold it
against my cheek,
I imagine,
for short moments,
that you are
still there.

Judith took me
to the derelict cottage
just off the wood
in the Easter recess

from school
she opened up
the back door
and into the kitchen

with its smell
of damp and decay
it's been empty for years
she said

my sister and I
used to come here
and pretend
it was our own cottage

smells horrible
I said
ignore the smell
she said

pretend it's our
own cottage
and we have
just moved in

after marrying
when did we marry?
I asked
after we left school

she said
smiling
she walked into
a larger room

with wide windows
looking out
onto a large
overgrown garden

we could grow
some of our own food
she said
looking out

the window
I looked at
the hanging wallpaper
and a damp patch

on the ceiling
and our children
could play out there
she said

what children?  I asked
when did they come along?
after we married
she said

I don't remember
I said smiling
you will
if you pretend better

she said
moving through
to another room
at the front

I noticed a space
where a picture
must have hung
because it was cleaner

than the rest
of the wall
I like this room
she said

this is where we will sit
and have our TV
and radio
and the children

can sit with us
and we can cuddle them
I nodded playing along
let me show you upstairs

to the bedrooms
she said
so I followed her
up the creaky stairs

her green skirt
swaying as she walked
three bedrooms
she said

one for us
one for our boys
and one for our girls
she stood

in the front bedroom
looking out
over an untidy hedge
onto the road

this is our bedroom
she said
turning around
looking at it all

our bed can go there
she said
pointing to a wall
on the left

and we can have
a dressing table
and dresser
the room was empty

and smelt
over by the right wall
was a pile of ****
some one's been here

and dumped
I said
probably some *****
or hobo

she looked
at the ****
and said
who's dumped

in our bedroom?
I laughed
it isn't our room yet
pretend

she said
I pretended
the **** wasn't there
and we went

into the other bedrooms
and she said
this was where
such and such

will be
and out of the window
the overgrown garden
seemed vast

with an apple orchard
to the left
she touched my hand
and squeezed it

we will be happy here
she said
I looked about
the room years after  

the cottage smelt ranker
and she was dead.

Lizbeth sits
in the bath
sponges down

and under
her thin arms
over small

but full *******
soapy suds
hot water

pretending
Benedict
is washing

between thighs
(here she sighs)
wiggles her

two big toes
she wonders
if he would

do such things
she doubts it
not the type

but she's tried
to get him
to have ***

even once
in her room
but mother

came back too
soon and spoilt
her chances

and that time
in his room
with his tank

of old bones
skeletons
and bird's eggs

and model
Spitfire
hanging down

but no ***
frustrated
she sponges

along thighs
imagining
it is he

rubbing her
his warm lips
planting hot

wet kisses
on the back
of her hand

touch on touch
O too much
if was such.

You thought you saw Christ
In Central Park
With beard
And matted hair,
You passed him by
Without a thought,
Then looked again,
But he wasn’t there,
He wasn’t there

Again tonight
Or the night before;
Perhaps it wasn’t
Christ that night,
But someone else
You saw. You’ll never
Know now, can only surmise,
But you thought it was he
By the light in his eyes.

Your mother's washed
your red patterned
woollen jumper,
the Christmas one
we call it, as that
was when
you wore it last.

She hung it on
a wooden hanger
in the hall to dry.

Seeing it there,
silent and empty,
opened in me
a deeply wounded,
unuttered cry.

Later when dry,
I took it down
to turn
the right way in
and fold,
then pressed against
my cheek and chest
to hold,
as if
for a moment
you were there again,
your beating heart,
your pulse of life,
your solid being,
but I knew you weren't,
just the coloured wool,
the red patterned jumper,
that just been washed scent.

I thought you immortal;
how sad that is,
that illusion love made,
that you will always be there, lie,
that you will
never never die.

I clutched
the jumper tight;
tried to sense you there,
your pounds of flesh,
your gentle self,
your body
within the wool.

How sad that is,
they'll say,
the old sad fool.

Your mother washed
and dried your
red patterned
woollen jumper
yesterday, today
I placed it on
a plastic hanger
and put away.

Jane helped me
get the cows in
from the field
towards the farm

up the narrow
country lane
high hedgerows
birds singing

rooks above our heads
making a terrible noise
she had her black hair
tied back

with a yellow ribbon
the flowery dress
and black boots
dressed her feet

saw a wren's nest
up there
I said
indicting a place

up in the hedgerow
above
the small stream
you didn't disturb it

did you?
she said
no just saw it
and took

a mental picture
of it
she smiled
some boys about

disturb the nests
and take the eggs
for their collection
she said

they should
know better
she added
as we drove

the cows up
towards the farm track
you've taken
to the country

well for a London boy
she said
it was
a big culture shock

I said
but I like it now
she looked at me
with her dark eyes

she patted
the rear of a cow
in front of her
my mother likes you

she said
does she?
I asked
yes she says you're

different
from the other
boys about here
what's so different

about me?
I asked
you're trustworthy
Mother said

she doesn't mind me
being with you
I nodded my head
and looked

at her hands
slender
white
and the nails

well kept
she doesn't know
about the kiss?
I said

Jane smiled
no but there's
no harm in that
the kiss I mean

if Mother asked me
I’d tell her
but no harm done
I could still taste

the kiss on my lips
my lips' memory
had stored it away
for keeps

warm and wet
her lips and mine
my hand
on the small

of her back that time
we drove the cows
into the farm yard
and into

the milking sheds
where we helped
the cowmen
to set up

the machines and feed
I watched her
out of the corner
of my eye

taking in
her figure
the way she stooped
her hair

and how her hands
touched the cows gently
wishing that her hands
would touched me

as tenderly
maybe she will
I inwardly said  
taking in

her total being
into my 13 year old head.

Never knew grief
could bite so deep,
my son. Dark night
succeeds dull day,
images replay
in black and white,
through dawn hours
following night.

Words captured,
last ones, over
and over in my
tired mind, in order,
exchanges, mundane,
but special now,
being the last.

Never thought
the knife of grief
could ****** so hard,
between shoulder blades,
heart, lungs, throat tight
and seemingly slit,
words choke, unable
to say, fingers push
damp cheeks
of tears away.

Dark day succeeds
drugged up night,
dawn's light
puts nothing right.

Never knew death
could undo so well,
my son, knew nothing
of the end game
until you went.

Life is not forever
just a brief gift
or maybe lent.
Never knew grief
could could so undo.

Dream following
nightmare, looking
for you, my son, for you.

Fay rubs her
rosary
between thumb

and finger
the black beads
holding prayers

but she thinks
they also
bring comfort

to her heart
usually
when her dad

loses it
and hits out
because she'd

forgotten
the Latin
of the Creed

mispronounced
Latin prayers
Baruch said

(the Jew boy
from downstairs)
your old man

doesn't know
the essence
of his faith

just the shell
of it all
Baruch said

God was one
for each and all
for the big

and the small
for the good
and the bad

for the wise
and the fool
her father

doesn't like
young Baruch
and forbids

her to talk
or see him
but she does

and meets him
secretly
for their talks

and their walks
in the park
at the old

cinema
Fay puts her
rosary

in the small
cloth pocket
of her dress

her fingers
leaving there
the small but
special prayer.

I knocked
on Lydia's front door
and waited
the morning sun

was coming
into the Square
Lydia's old man
opened the door

and stared at me
with bloodshot eyes
what do you want?
he said

is Lydia
coming out?
I asked
who wants to know?

I do
why?
wondered if she'd like
to see the trains

I said
why would she
want to see trains?
he said gruffly

she likes trains
I said
he looked beyond me
at the block of flats behind  

who said
she likes trains?
she did
I said

I work
with fecking trains
all day
she's never said

about trains before
he said
looking at me again
his eyes trying

to focus
we often
go see trains
I said

we went  to Waterloo
train station
the other week
he closed his eyes

rubbed
his hairy chin
and breathed out
a beery flavour

LYDIA
he bellowed suddenly
I stepped off
the front door step

and stood
gaping at him
LYDIA
he called again

he opened his eyes
and stared at me
I detected life
behind the mask

Lydia came
to the door
and peeped under
her old man's arm

this kid wants to know
if you want go see
fecking trains
he said gently

his voice silky
do you?
she nodded her head
yes

can I?
she asked
he looked at me
as if I’d just

stolen his wallet
trains?
he said
steam trains

I said
yes steam trains
she said
we like watching them

he raised his eyebrows
and looked down at her
under his arm
resting on the door jamb

ok ok
if you want go see trains
go see trains
he said

and wandered off
inside
leaving Lydia and me
looking at each other

Waterloo again?
I asked
what about Victoria station?
she said

ok sure
I replied
and she turned
around

to go get
her shoes inside.

Yesterday was a dark doomer.
I thought I saw you
here and there
in the other town
where once we wandered
years ago.

Grief had a field day,
keeping me low.

I wandered shops
with the others
and alone, feeling
on the edge, looking
into that dark abyss.

I bought a Hunter
Thompson book
from the cheap
book shop,
the girl gave me a,
why did you buy that?
kind of look;
young girl,
bored maybe,
thinking of her
boyfriend or girlfriend
or whosoever.

I thought of you,
you, my son,
the way you went,
the unanswered
questions so far,
holding your hand
as you slipped away,
flat-lining heart.

We had sandwiches
and drank,
in the inside café;
watched other people
do their thing,
life going on,
unaware
that dark doomers
were sitting there.

But of course,
you knew, you were
probably there
unseen by us,
eating a burger
and sipping a cola,
(at least
in that spirit world
as we think,)
looking at us,
sipping your drink.

The show's not over
till the fat lady snores,
I should know,
I was there, 1973  
or 74 and Mahler
still playing
on her Hi-Fi,
the last movement
of the Ist symphony.

We liked that, made
love to it, wondering
what Gustav
would have made
of that, the fat dame
and me, empty
whiskey glasses
on the table, curtains
drawn against
the night sky and moon.

The first time
she snored,
her soft whiskey breath,
her globes caught
in moon's glow,
her closed eyes
like upturned shells.

Her Scottish tongue
soft but sharp, her
flab sufficient
to keep warm
if needed,
but it was along ago,
she's gone now,
so I heard, my fat
dame lover, my ***
making love bird.

Sure, he brought you lilac
And made the usual

Promises, but he *****
Other girls to get rid

Of frustration and get
His own back; that’s the kind

Of guy he is, always
Has been and always will,

Even his mother gives
Him a wide berth and has

Little to do with him,
Other than what most good

Mothers will if pushed to
Their limits and need to

Take account of who and
What their offspring is

Or was. Sure, he brought you
Chocolates and candy,

But he sleeps with other
Girls who are easy and

Handy and give him a
Good time and don’t hang on

To his every word and
Gaze and look and try to

Fit him into this type
Or that or into this

Way of being or gaze
At some wedding day book.

Sure, he kisses you all
Shyly and gentle, but

Behind your back, he
Drives dames mental with his

Wanting this and that and
Wanting it regular

And here and now and right
Upfront or behind or

Have *** anyhow. Sure,
He promises you many

Things, gifts and funny jokes
And is kindly to your

Mother, but unknown to
You or any other

He’s having *** with the
Girlfriend of your brother,

And that’s not a new thing
Or a one off or a sad

Mistake, he’s out to have
Any *** he can, be

It gladly given or
What he can gladly take.

Of course there was ***
Before 63 and the Beatles
First LP. You found some

Proof. Grandmother kept
That quiet. The photo was
Tucked away between pages

Of a Percy Shelley. One lives
And learns. New knowledge
For old. Who was the man

Kissing Grandmother’s neck
And embracing her fondly?
Passionate whoever he was

And she enjoying it quite a
Bit, and scantly dressed at
That, you muse, turning the

Photo over to the back. In
Fading ink, some pen had
Written, you were never shy

And always bitten. What a
Way to be remembered, you
Smile, tucking the photo back

Between pages of the book
And put it in your pocket for
Safekeeping. You’ll keep it

Safe all right, tucked beneath
The pillow where you’re sleeping.

Was it you
who touched
your mother's shoulder
that night
as she wept?

(I was drugged up
(sleeping pill),
so slept.

She finds
Mondays
the worst,
the day you died,
than the rest.

Cuts her up,
brings her
to a low ebb.

Saturdays are mine,
the day it all seemed
to go wrong,
two days before
your death,
the incompetence,
the mistakes
seemingly made;
things not done.  

Was it you?
we deem it so.

The gentlest
of touches,
as she shed
her tears,
turned and saw
I slept
as she wept.

Grief comes
in waves,
high rushes
of it, sweeping
all before it
towards
the shores
of hurt and pain,
comes again
and again.

Who to count
the leaves
of grief's tree?

Who to count
the stars
of doubt
and death
and regret?

Was it you?
We think it so.

Gives her
a sense of relief
from the bites
of gnawing grief.

She’d be the one left
Out of conversations,
The onlooker, the dark

Peripheral angel, as
Father called her, always
Looking in, listening to

The talk, adding no words.
She knew the inner voices.
They spoke too frequently

To ignore. Don’t let it get
You down, one voice within
Would say, they’re just all

Too human for you to attend
To their talk or detail or wonder
Where silly speeches like theirs

Evolved. Father spoke of
Ideas, of the highbrow music,
The inner workings of the

Female brain, the morality
Of art. Mother never embraced
Or praised or spoke with

The echoes of love, just the
Voice connected to this and
That not being done or done

Too often or not frequent
Enough with the odd poke,
Shove or cuff. The well paid

Psychologist plumbed her
Depths like some pearl diver
Or tried to draw out of her

Deepness some clues to her
Makeup, something to hook
Theories on, to give him some

Glimmer of satisfaction that
He’d done his job, tied her
Up into a neat bundle of so

And so. She’d heard her parents
Talk of her, discuss her like
Some item bought; dissatisfied

With the poor quality and
Dysfunctionality found. They
Would say that wouldn’t they,

An inner voice said inside her
Head. Be of good cheer, another
Voice would whisper into her

Inner ear, you can dismantle
Them, my dear. She lay in bed
At night gazing at moon and stars,

Making her tongue cluck as she
Listened through the wall to the
Parents (in their own sad way) ****.

Ingrid usually wore
the faded grey
flowery dress
that had seen

better days
I saw her crossing
Rockingham Street
I was getting

bread rolls
and she was standing
by the wall
of the flats

red eyes
hair unbrushed
where are you going?
she asked

getting rolls
for breakfast
I said
how comes

you're out here
so early?
I asked
my dad

pushed me out
said I was getting
on his nerves
she said

have you had breakfast?
I asked
no not yet
she said

I looked up
Meadow Row
the early morning sun
was breaking

through clouds
you can come back
to my mum's place
I said

have rolls and butter
she looked at me
can I ?
she said

of course
I replied
taking in her red eyes
and untidy hair

and a fading bruise
under her left eye
real butter?
she said

yes and maybe
cheese if you want
I said
she looked at me

her eyes
feeding on me
what now?
she said

yes
come to the bakers
with me and we
can go back

to my mum's place
together
I said
so we went across

to the baker's shop
and I bought
crusty bread rolls
my mother had said

and we walked back
through the Square
and up the stairs
to the flat

are you sure
your mum
won't mind?
she said

as I opened
the front door
no she won't mind
the more the merrier

I said
and so we went
into the kitchen
and I told my mother

and she said fine
and cut open the rolls
and buttered them
and put in

some cheese
and Ingrid and I
went into
the front room

and we ate them
in an early morning
silence
and as she ate

I gave a secret sigh
seeing the fading bruise
beneath
her left eye.

I dreamed
of you
last night.

Not the 29 year
old you
who died

as I held
your hand,
but the

younger you,
the young kid
with the smile

and big
blue eyes,
the adventurous

you, the climber,
the you
in the cowboy hat

and gun,
the blue
eyed you,

the one
mischievous
for fun.

I dreamed
of you
last night.

Not the 29
year old who
died and flat-lined

my heart, but
the younger you,
big eyes of blue,

that one,
that you,
my son.

Between you and me,
I kiss your photograph
when I pass,
the one on my phone
or the ones in frames
or  behind glass.

I do it secretly
so no one else
can see,
just between
you and me.

Sometimes
I blow a kiss
from my palm,
hoping it
will reach you
wherever you are,
a mere spiritual
world away
or maybe so
not quite far.

Some days,
I hold things
which were yours,
try and sense
the feel of you,
the scent of you
within the cloth
or book or other things,
holding tight to see
what comes or what
you may bring.

There is a part of me
that's forever lost,
part of me
that has a hole,
a scar, a wounded
heart and mind;
but also there are
parts of you which
none can take,
the link of memories,
the genetic hold
within me still,
your sound of voice,
the way you were
and stood, joked,
laughed or looked,
that picture of you
within my mind,
which none can see.

I kiss your picture
when I pass, secretly,
between you and me.

When can I leave? Not yet.
When? When we’re sure, you won’t
Harm yourself anymore
Ceili. Harm myself? Yes,

Slit your wrists, try to hang
Yourself, take too many
Pills. An accident. Yes,
Maybe, but we need to

Be sure. Sure of what? That
You won’t do it again.
When can you be sure? That
Is up to you, Ceili.

How can I be sure? You
Will know. How will you know?
We are professionals,
We’ll know. Can you tell me

When? When what, honey? When
It’s time for me to go
And when I won’t do things
Like you said. Why don’t you

Go back to bed; you look
Tired. I can’t sleep; it’s
Those **** pills you gave me.
They’re sleeping pills, sweetie,

They ought to make you sleep.
They don’t work. Maybe you
Aren’t trying. I lost my
Baby. Yes, I know you

Did. My third. Yes, I read
That. My man beats me up.
Men can be creeps at times.
My pop did things to me.

When? When I was quite young.
Did you report it? No.
Why not? Scared. Why don’t you
Try to sleep, ceili, things

Will seem much brighter in
The morning. I hate bright
Mornings, they’re worse than nights.
God look at the ****** time.

What time is it now? Three.
That’s when my baby died.
The last one. I hate that
Hour. Do you want some

Hot chocolate? Can I
Have a cookie or two?
Sure you can. When can I
Leave? Not yet. When? When you

Stop asking when, that’s when.

She wore her red beret
at an angle
tilted slightly
her hair flowed

from the back
and sides
she had just ridden
my blue

two wheeled
scooter
then sat beside me
on the grass

the blue scooter
resting against the wall
I wonder if people hid
in the bomb shelters?

she said
if the air-raid sirens
went off they would
have done

I said
looking at the shelters
over the way
bet it was dark

in there and spiders
and such
she said
better than being

blown apart
by a bomb
I said
I gave her

one of my sherbet
flying saucer sweets
she put it
in her mouth

and *******
up her eyes
sour
she said

I smiled
gets you
like that
the first time around

she opened her eyes
guess so
she said
she watched

as I put one
in my mouth
and sensed
the sherbet explode

on the tongue
then chewed
the outer softness
can I have another?

Janice asked
sitting there
head to one side
sure

I said
and offered her
the bag
she put two

of her thin fingers in
and took out
a sweet
I noticed

how blue
her eyes were
like small oceans
each reflecting

the summer sky
she wiped
her fingers
on her orange dress

leaving a white sherbet
damp powdery mess.

I thought
I had you

for always;
I was mistaken.

Some God,
or not,

as the case
may be,

has for some reason,
unknown to me,

has you
from me,

hurtfully
taken.

Come up and see me
Sometime, May West said.
And Chimanski could
Not get the words out

Of his head, they’d buzz
Around like blow flies
In a shut up room;
And he imagined

Her upstairs in bed,
Laying there, ready
And waiting, looking
Like she did in her

Prime, as in the small
Photographs he had
Of her tucked away,
Out of his wife’s scan,

Especially the
One hidden away
In his black wallet,
Behind the dull doomed

Photo of his wife;
And sipping from his
Beer and looking up
At the white ceiling,

He listened for footsteps
In his room; the sound
Of the mattress touched,
The sound of his name

Being called, not by
Mae, but by her poor
Understudy, his
Fifteen stone wife

Fay whom he signed and
Contracted for life.

On the one and only
Bright day she attempted
To escape from the locked
Ward of the small mental

Hospital in her short
Black dress and red slippers,
With her dull black hair, long,
Untidy and unbrushed,

She was roughly wrestled
To the ground of the long
Brightly lit corridor
Outside, by some burly

Hunk of a male nurse who
Smelt of ****, and as he
Pinned her down, she gazed up
Into his big brown eyes,

And saw the images
Of herself reflected
Like some broken doll or
Some beat up gangster’s moll.

I sometimes wish
we conversed more
you and I,
but we rarely did.

We both preferred
the silence
to over talk;
each shared

a Stoic philosophy,
Spartan in our ways,
even in our former days.  
Sometimes, my son,

I wish I had said more
and you to me,
but it wasn't our way;
I guess we were

more alike
than I thought,
preferring reason,
to emotional turmoil,

preferring the calm
before the storm,
our quiet hand
upon the helm of ship,

our steadiness
against the tides
of trudging time.
I wish that we

had said more in words
to each the other
over the recent years,
before your death

had silenced you,
before the grief set in
and tore
at soul and mind.

I still converse with you,
my son,
but in a different
manner now,

more open,
more expressive,
knowing you will hear
in your quiet way,

even after death,
after days, months
and years, after hurt
and pain and tears.

I wish sometimes
we conversed more
you and I,
that we had said

the things that now
I wish to say,
but we were more alike
than I thought then,

not just father and son,
but kindred
philosophical
gentle men.

Your Manchester United
football shirt
hangs framed
on the wall:
Ole and number 20
show through the glass.

I remember
you wearing it,
your body
filling out the cloth,
giving life to it,
your name
and number
worn proud
amongst the family,
or out in the crowd.

Now your shirt
hangs there
silent and still
behind the glass.

I wonder if it
still retains
some aspect of you,
some particles
like sparkles
that remain long after
like memories residing
in the shirt's soul.

Your brother put it there,
sealed in the frame,
your number 20
and Ole
your shortened name,
out of love and grief,
wanting it
to always be
in sight, part of you,
inside, like a light
in the mind's
dark night.

I guess
I’ll never forget
you sitting there
on that bed
at the end
of that ward.

It seems burnt
into my memory
like some old
piece of film
repeating over
and over
in my mind.

I go over
the last words
you said,
try to get them
in order, try to
unfold each word
as if it were
a puzzle
to be solved.

That look you had,
the deep set eyes,
tired, worn;
the breathing laboured
hard to get;
the puffed up
hands and arms.

You were eating
some chocolate mousse
I think, small dish,
small white spoon,
half eaten sandwich
to one side.

I felt along
your puffed up arm
with my fingers,
felt the hand, puffy,
not the right colour.

We talked,
you slow,
pushing out
the words.

Not a good night,
you said.

Dinner wasn't up
to much, some
doctor came,
some scan
to be done,
you said,
what for?
Dunno,
you replied.

I helped you back
on the bed,
set your pillows
neat and firm.

We talked
some more,
unaware
these would be
your last words,
mundane matters,
not deep
philosophical dealings,
these were
small talk mutterings,
sick bedside chatter.  

No famous last words,
no farewell speech.
I'll see you tomorrow,
I said.

OK,
you said,
closing your eyes
on the bed.

That was it;
last words all said.

Next day,
late afternoon,  
your heart
flat-lined
and you,
my son,
were dead.

Teatime done with
I went with Helen
across the bomb site
off Meadow Row

and crossed
the New Kent Road
to the ABC cinema
and along side

the dark alleys
dim lights
damp stink
she just behind me

clutching her doll
Battered Betty
by one arm
was that a rat?

she half said
and screamed
could be
I said

you see
them at night
down here
she clutched my arm

with her free hand
Battered Betty
swaying behind her
what we looking for?

she asked
cigarette ends
I said
why?

What do you
want them for?
she asked
make up a smoke

with Rizla *** papers
I said
you smoke
old tobacco?

she said
put it
in your mouth?
If I get

enough tobacco
sure
I said
looking around

the ground
yuk
she said
sometimes

I find dropped coins
I found a cuff link once
silver it was
but one

ain't much good
unless you're
a one armed man
I said

does your mum know
you smoke?
God no
I said

she has enough
to worry about
without me
adding to it

she frowned
clutched my arm tighter
well you shouldn't smoke
she said

you're only 9 like me
and I would never smoke
and our children
when we have them

won't smoke either
she said
she looked
at Battered Betty steely

I pushed her words
and images
out of my mind
for the moment

I saw a semi-smoked
Senior Service
on the ground
by the wall

and stooped
to pick it up
it's got lipstick on it
Helen said distastefully

it's has a woman's
spittle inside
I looked at her
disapproving gaze

and threw it away
yes you're right
I said
men's spittle's best

she frowned darkly
ok
I said
not really

I just jest
another time maybe
I thought
taking her deeper

into the dark
and rats
and damp stink
of drains

remembering it all
it sinking
into my
9 year brain.

I found your old
wrist watch
amongst your things;
strap worn, unstitched,

the face of the watch
stopped at a given time,
metal touched with grime.
Don't know when

you wore it last,
but I guess your being
still tingles along the vibes,
despite the years gone by.

I wonder if you
chopped up your day
by it, wonder what hours
you set aside for play,

what for work or sleep?
You're dead now, so that
information will have to keep,
the hours spent, the moments

slipped by in the blink
of a human eye, the ticking
watch ticking off
the time allotted you,

your span set out,
the final year
mapped out maybe,
for none to know or see.

I hold your watch,
allow the sense of you
to come through
the metal workings,

silver cast, leather strap;
the sense of you
pulsing as I wear it
briefly on my wrist;  

the back of the watch
and my skin touching
as if kissed. I will put
the wrist watch away,

in some drawer, for
another, some day,
but it is you, my son,
that is wanted, that’s missed.

You think you can just
dump me, huh? Think
I am just going to let
you get away with that,

eh? Who do you think
you are? Well let me tell
you, mister, you ain't
nobody; you're just a

woman dumper,
a woman chaser, and
woman beater, who ain't
got no brain, just that

weedy thing between
your legs, that is all you
are. She puts down the
photograph on the white

mantelpiece, glares at it,
sticks her tongue out at it.
Besides you're losing
your hair, except up your

nose and in your ears, yes,
there you have plenty;
like sleeping with a ****
ape; you know that, huh?

She lights a cigarette and
puffs smoke at the photograph.
You know what your mother
said when I got in with you?

Huh? She said you're very
welcome to him; you can
have him; hope you can make
something of him, she said,

well I couldn't do it; I let her
down. She inhales deeply and
exhales over the frame. I hope
the dame you're with now,

gets to know what you are like
early; hope she ain't no push
over; hope she bangs you one;
hopes she gives you the pox.

She stares at the guy in the
frame; the celluloid image
black and white. I don't miss
you mister, she says, not in

the day, and certainly not in
bed or any time of  night.

Sunny day
that hospital
visiting day
she outside

in a chair
smoking a cigarette
I sat  in a chair
next to her

wouldn't
let me out
she said
wanted to meet you

in London
but the docs
put their spoke
in the wheel

and the parents
are none too happy
about it
means

they have
to visit me
rather than I
go to them

I said nothing
let her speak on
get it out
of her system

she had this
dressing gown on
her hair tied back
in an untidy bun

bright red slippers
on her feet
if I didn't have
these cigarettes

I’d go completely
over the wall
with the other
fruit cakes in here

she said
they said
you were here
at the hall

I said
I went there first
Warwick said
you were here

bought you these
and I gave her
a pack of smokes
and a small box

of chocolates
she took the gifts
with her free hand
and placed them

beside her
on the grass
God you are good
to me

if we were in the City
I’d repay you
she said
no need

I said
given out of love
not lust
she smiled

guess so
she said
they keep
that small cupboard

locked now
she said
after that time
we had it off

in there
she said
I looked back
towards

the hospital ward
a few yards away
too small anyway
I said

she inhaled slow
on the cigarette
her eyes half closing
due to the smoke

do you really get
that church
tambourine
banging thing?

she asked
the essence yes
I said
not necessarily

the trappings
she stared at me
her free hand
in her lap

the other holding
the cigarette
to one side
I suppose people

need to believe
something
in this **** circus
of a world

she said
guess so
I said
she looked down

towards the road
some fifty yards away
where traffic
moved slowly by

and as she moved
she crossed her legs
a glimpse of thigh
caught my weary eye.

Milka touched
Benedict
on the arm

her fingers
running down
to his hand

Benedict
touched Milka
on her thigh

his fingers
running up
to her ***

their lips met
hot kisses
wet tonguing

both eyes closed
his fingers
making play

her fingers
tickling
his open palm

she thinking
dream like things
wedding bells

wedding rings
he thinking
fingers warm

entering
opened her
like flower

in spring time
her beauty
undone him

****** him dry
she asked him
her questions

like girls do
he answered
one word why?

We'll never get
those times back now,
least not for real,
in mind maybe,
viewing photographs,
recalling past times,
long ago laughs.

But now it's just that,
memories in stacks,
memories of you,
places, things done,
things said; gone now,
you being dead.

You kept words
to a minimum,
used them
like precious coins;
seldom making
statements; rarely
getting in involved
in the small talk,
the day to day banter;
but when you did,
came out of your shell,
it all meant
something more,
special, done well.

Even at the Tate Modern
you kept your views
of the art and artists
to yourself; their skill
or lack of, never
mentioned or hinted at;
just your quiet viewing,
that way you had
of taking things in,
ordering them neatly
inside your head;
your encyclopediatic  
knowledge of matters,
or so seemed,
you processed;
that look you had,
seemingly impassive,
unmoved, but moved
you were, a soul like
yours so often is,
deeply moved that is,  
your eyes taking in,
your mind processing
the whole show,
as you did before,
in your own way
of having your say.

Wish you were
still here, with your
few words, that look
of yours, back here today.

Baruch liked
Yehudit's eyes
the smile that lingered
waiting for her

seemed an eternity  
being with her
always seemed
too short a time

the walk
by the wood shed
the memory
of their first

smoke there
she almost choking
that first time
the path

through the woods
the trees tall
sky above
hardly seen

she by a tree
that time waiting
said she wanted to
but they didn't

not just yet
he said
the walk to the pond
warm weather

unlike that first time
when the frost
bit them
he waited

by the pond side
ducks swimming
disturbing
the water's skin

she lay once
beside him here
talked of ***
or what

she knew of it
what girls
at school said
what one girl

said it was like
he watched the ducks
smelt the weather's air
that first kiss

kisses followed
she and him
the moon shining
above them

he liked the way
she lay
on that bed
the sunlight

through the window
falling
on her *******
he watched the sky

through
the tall trees
clouds passing
he liked her hand

in his
warm pulsing
fingers touching
undoing

doing
waiting seemed
an eternity
he often said

playing out
the last kiss
inside
his morning time head.

Can you
buy me
an Augusten
Burroughs book?
You asked.

I'd not heard
of the guy
until then;
read Bill Burroughs,
but this guy
was new to me.

Anyway,
I sought him out
in the local book store
and purchased
the book you said;
wrapped it up
for the birthday gift
and gave.

Now and then,
if house sitting
for you, while you
were at work
and some workman
came to do a job
or sort things out,
I’d pick out
the Burroughs book
and read
a paragraph
or so, smile,
get the drift,
the humour
pretty much
like yours,
then put it down
until another time arrived
to carry on
the quest to read
where I’d left off
the time before.

Now
since your sudden death,
I’ve inherited them all,
the large book
and medium range
and the small.

I've all the time
to read them now;
they sit there
by my bedside cabinet
waiting to be read,
silent, well behaved,
orderly, all in line.

I wondered if
you read them all,
or if time ran out
before the end,
that illusive
final paragraph
or so, that last book
unread.

I guess
I’ll never know;
you being
on the other side
of the curtain,
they label:
being dead.

Sure I’ll read
the books
read them
until the end
each
and every one;
but I’d rather
see you again
my dear
departed son.

Jeanette looked
back at me in class
I was at the back
with Reynard

focusing
on the history lesson
as best we could
the text books open

before us
some colour picture
of a cave man
with a spear

and dressed in fur
and some cave girl
standing beside
looking **** ugly

Reynard said
in whispered breath
Jeanette’s eyes
were focused on me

dark looking
her hair long
and dark
thin hands

and frame
she looked away again
her narrow shoulders
full to view

the teacher
was chalking words
upon the board
sentence

after sentence
in a measured script
I thought about
the quick peck

on Jeanette's cheek
at lunch recess
just so
quick in and out

before she had time
to say or breathe
or feel the affects
to make her swoon

or sick or both
I scribbled
on the exercise page  
in untidy scrawl

Reynard muttering
comments
about the cave girl's ****
about hair

under her arms
but I was focused
on Jeanette’s line
of curve

the way her
narrow waist
went in and out
so narrow

I’d get my arms
all about
dark hair
on her shoulders

smooth
well brushed
or combed
the head

at an angle
as if to scrutinize
the writing
on the board

take in the words
and sense
and write it down
in her (I imagined

far finer hand
than mine
going by the smooth
movement

of her fingers and pen)
maybe I could
kiss her again
I thought

some place
some when.

I wear
your grey
woollen mittens,
the ones

you can make
into gloves
by pulling over
the fingers

to make complete;
soft, thick,
but warm; neat.
I can sense you near

with them on;
an imaginary pulse
moves along
beside mine.

You felt the cold;
although didn't say
as such
or not

over much;
your hands
and fingers
seeking shelter

within the wool,
rubbing against
the fibre, skin
on softness,

warmth like
a kind of drug,
seeping in.
I wear your grey

woollen mittens,
my fingers fitting
where yours once did,
the feel of you

in the wool's soft memory;
the fibre’s hold,
keeping you warm,
my son,

keeping to warm
against the cold.
The mittens seem fresh;
not worn thin or aged

or coming unwoven
as some things do.
I wear your grey mittens,
have them close,

neat and touching.
I wish they were you.

Elaine sits
in her room
the door shut

her sister
in the room
next to hers

plays records
all too loud
an Elvis

Rock and Roll
kind of song
but Elaine

shuts it out
as best as
she now can

curtain's drawn
***** of light
through a gap

gazing hard
at herself
in mirror

her features
those two eyes
her thoughts on

the boy John
what went wrong?
almost there

getting close
yet so tense
lost in words

burnt in touch
scared to feel
love as this

undoing
lost balance
this love feel

this chasm
she pretends
to kiss him

her eyes close
Elvis sings
from nearby

the song hurts
feels undone
makes her cry.

There was a certain
Delicacy in
The dead child’s hands. She

Remembers it now,
The way her digit
Moved along the thin

Fingers before the
Blue tinge came. Smooth and
Fragile like fine bone

China and almost
Transparent after
The child’s illness came.

She held her child in
Her lap for fifteen
Minutes after death

Came; no one disturbed;
Gave her any crap
Or words of advice.

Just her and her child;
The warmness going
Like short summer’s end.

The eyelids like white
Shells. She stroked the hands,
Pretending that life

Would return with each
Gentle rub; the eyes
Open with a small

Short flutter. Nothing
Happened, she recalls,
Thinking back, just those

Minutes alone, that
Final hug and gaze
And kiss of the cheeks,

Knowing the flowing
Of time’s smooth sands. There
Was, she recalls, a

Delicacy in
The dead child’s small hands.

Benedict
thinks of her
Christina

the girlfriend
at high school
as he now

undresses
preparing
for bedtime

she far off
in her house
in her town

her parents
probably
below stairs

watching their
dull programmes
on TV

while she in
her bedroom
undresses

or so he
imagines
(in his head)

watching her
removing
each piece of

clothing
as he too
undresses

in his room
a coloured
centrefold

of a fast
racing car
on the wall

and her small
photograph
by his bed

she gave him
he'd seen her
on the field

at high school
during their
lunch recess

she sitting
with her friends
giggling

then walking
together
off alone

high smell of
lavender
her soft hand

lips kissing
now in bed
lying there

lights all out
just moonlight
reflecting

her image
he pretends
she is there

next to him
not speaking
not laughing

both watching
the moon move
and stars shine

hands touching
fingers entwined
each having

the same thoughts
in shared mind.

She brought
two pieces of cake
her mother had made
to the pond

she termed our lake  
and we sat
on the dry summer grass
she unwrapped the paper

and handed me
the slice of cake
looks good
I said

it is
Judith said
she can do
some things right

the cake was sweet
and soft
and mouth watering
I held the cake

over my palm
collecting every crumb
she looked out
over the pond

the still skin
of water
flies hovering
over the top

bird calls and songs
and the sun seeping
through
the tall trees

overhead
she had her hair tied
in an untidy bun
at the back

her grey dress
came to the knees
dimly flowered
I sneaked these out

Judith said
not often
I get the chance
well done

I said
the last few crumbs
were gone now
just a damp palm

where they had been
she finished hers
and licked her palms
do you remember

when we first
came here?
she asked
yes

I said
winter
and I was frozen
and my fingers

were numb
she smiled
yes and I licked them
warm again

I smiled too
it had been
as she said
frozen fingers

****** warm
her mouth over
the fingers
one by one

wouldn't do it
for just anyone
she said
I hope not

I said
that first kiss
recall that?
she asked

of course
Christmas
while carol singing
and the moon bright

and you embracing me
and our lips
kind of met
you embraced me too

she said
your lips met mine
they did I recalled
sitting there

next to her
her body so close
to mine
I could hear

her heart beat
her pulse race
what carol
were the others

singing?
she asked
haven't a clue
I said

too busy kissing
and you had
your hand
drawing me tighter

to you
on my backside
yes I did
didn't I

a bird flew across
the pond noiseilly
we looked up
caught sunlight

with our eyes
bird sounds
clouds passed
her hand

touched mine
a tingle raced
along my nerves
ringing bells

in my head
years have fled
time emptied away
and she is dead.

Do you recall,
my son,
from your side
of the curtain

of death,
that Metallica CD
you bought me
at that record fair

some years back?
You fingered through
a number of CDs
in racks

looking for something
for yourself:
Radiohead
or R.E.M.

I forget which
or was it more
or both.
I was in

a heavy metal
frame of mind
that day;
counting the money

to match the choice.
I'll get it
for you
for your birthday,

you said.
I play it still,
the Metallica CD,
the thundering drums,

buzz saw guitars,
chugging bass,
and tough guy voice
over the turned up

loud burning lot.
I think of you
when playing it now;
your quiet nature,

soft spoken voice,
hungry-bear stance
about the room,
your own unique

chuckle of humour.
Do you remember,
my son,
the Zed Zeppelin

CD and DVD
you bought me
for my birthday
that final year?

you'll always be
a rocker,
you said,  
and those words

repeat softly,
like a summer breeze,
through the corridors,
of my mourning head.

I still have
your rectangle
black leather wallet,
but it is empty now:

the money notes
banked in your account,
the cards sorted,
cut up and shredded,

the loose coins given
to your chosen charity.
How lonely it looks now
without you to handle;

the leather worn
at the edges
through use
you gave,

shiny black,
silent black,
unused now,
kept as a memory

to hold onto in days
of hurt like now
and years to come.
I remember

that last Saturday
in hospital,
you took out coins,
to buy bottles of water,

to quench your thirst
and help you ***.
The wallet looked full then,
bulging at the seams,

full of use and life,
held in your hands,
your fingers working
the coin zip.

Now it lays there
unused and thin,
your DNA
all over it,

worked in the seams,
the leather,
the small pocket
of the wallet.

I feel close to you
when I rub a thumb
or ageing finger
along its black

rectangle length,
the shiny worn leather,
bringing us, momentarily,
closer together.

Lizbeth was waiting for me
by the hedge
under the water tower
been waiting for you

she said
been helping
sawing logs
I said

where we going?
she asked
walk up the Downs?
I said

she shrugged
her shoulders
I suppose so
she said moodily

where else?
I said
what about
that empty cottage

down the lane
she said
that would be
less far to go

and more likely
likely for what?
I said
you know

she said
might be a place
an empty shed or such
I looked at her hair

drawn into a pony tail
her eyes fixed on me    
we'll have to walk then
I said

you can leave your bike
by our shed
ok
she said

and so we walked back
to the cottage
and left her bike
by the shed wall

and walked down the lane
at a steady pace
don't you find
all this countryside

boring?
she said
no shops
no cinema

no place to go
it's ok
I said
I don't get bored

I go for walks
collect bird's eggs
look for animal skeletons
in the woods

fossils in the chalk walls
stop
she said
that's so dull

bad enough
you showed me
all that stuff
that time

in your bedroom
I smiled
you forgot to mention
my Spitfire hanging

from the ceiling
of course
she said
just what

I always wanted
to see
she looked
at the small stream

by the path
where you walked
in your bedroom
and all you

could think about
was showing me
your bones and fossils
and I wanted

to do things
she said
I found a wren's nest
up there

earlier this year
I said
pointing to an area
on her right

didn't disturb it though
waited until
the chicks had hatched
and flown away

before I collected
the eggshell remains
she didn't look impressed
she looked at the sky

where rooks flew
over head
my cousin collects
bird's eggs

she said
he gets them
as soon as he can
and blows out

the gunk inside
through a small hole
so yuk
she said

she took my hand
in hers as we turned
along the path
leading to

the empty cottage
stuck on the edge
of a field
come on

she said
let's have a look
for some place
we can do things

I followed her
through the front gate
and along a path
by weeds

and flowers mingled
roses red and yellow
by a wall
she tried

a shed door
but it was locked
she walked further along
to the back

of the cottage
and tried the back door
which was locked
she looked

in a window
this porch way
would give us cover
she said

looking around her
cover for what?
I said
for doing things

she said
not comfortable though
she added
looking at

the red brick
by the back door porch
I was hoping
there would be

some where
she said
she drew me into
the porch way

and put her arms
about me
and kissed me
her lips

were warm
and wettish
her tongue entered
into my mouth

like a small fish
a tractor sounded nearby
she broke away
and looked

by the porch
over towards
the field behind
a blue tractor

moved by
the edge
of the field
the noise loud

and smoke rising
in the air
that was it
her whole body froze

and her eyes
had a cold angry glare.

I kept your last
birthday card to me;
tucked it between
books on my shelf,

not knowing then
it would be the last;
your small simple script
and name, artwork done,

received with all the rest
that day, last year.
I have taken it out
a few times now,

read the script over
and over, as if maybe,
more words
might appear,

than those before.
I hold it in my hands
and imagine where
your fingers touched,

where your pen
scribed the words,
and for that frozen moment
capture part of you again,

that feel, that ghostly smell,
thinking maybe
my fingers are, where
your fingers were,

your DNA mixing with mine,
mixing together
like good scotch, not wine.
I shall keep

your birthday card to me,
keep it safe, re-read
now and then,
pretend each year

it came from you,
anew, fresh written,
your fine small hand;
waiting each birthday

for it to land,
the birthday card
from my eldest son
(now dead), and when

my birthday comes around
once more, I shall take
the card out and read
with all the rest that came,

keeping you you always
in my heart and head,
with your small scribed,
loving name.

Put your finger
along there
Jane said
gently

and she opened
her hands
to form
a kind of cup

and there
was the butterfly
yellowish with white
it opened and closed

its wings
feel the smoothness
she said
I focused

on her palms
the skin
thinking how lucky
the butterfly was

to land there
I gently touched
its wings
with my finger

gently so as not
to make it
fly off
she was intense

gazing at my finger
the wings opening
and closing  
my finger

was a mere
breath away
from touching
her skin

the warmth
of her palms
I leaned in closer
could smell

apples or fresh air
and her dark eyes
turned on me
and I looked back

at the butterfly
and stroked its
wings again
it flapped

and flew off
and I watched it
go passed
her dark hair

her eyes following it
in the air
and I followed
her hair

the dark and straight
the opened necked blouse
the green skirt
isn't it beautiful?

she said
yes very much so
I said
gazing at

the line of her neck
the area
where her hair
and collar

didn't meet
the jawline
and she
was looking up

at the sky
where the butterfly
flittered amongst
nearby flowers

at the foot
of the Downs
so gentle their wings
she said

she imitated
a butterfly
with her hands
the thumbs

hooked together
flapping her hands
out and in
and looked at them

then at me
should I stroke
the wings?
I said

she smiled
flapping
her hands slowly
so I did

stroking slowly
and gently
the outer line
of palm

with my finger
and she gazed at me
then at my finger
her small tongue

at the corner
of her mouth
beyond her
the butterfly

flittered off
the white and yellow
exchanging
as it went away

my finger
moving up and down
then slowly
moving

like the butterfly
a little bit away.

We placed a rose
on the plot today,
where in a week or so,
your boxed ashes will lay.

Strange looking at the grass,
the ground damp from rain,
that fell the previous day;
unreal that this

is where your final
remains will lie,
in the casket,
underground

far from the eye.
It gutted me,
looking there,
the lump in the throat,

the eyes full,
slight wind
in the hedges near by,
wanting to pour out,

get the hurt out there,
pushed off somewhere.  
A lonesome rose,
lay on the plot;

all about other stones
and crosses and statues,
names and dates,
words of loss and pain,

other have felt
sometime along the years,
days, hours, ticking quietly
from grave to grave,

flowers placed,
plants in a ***,
and soon you will
lie there in your own

marked plot,
words chiselled
against the black,
but whatever

we have worded there,
can never
bring you back,
dear son,

can never
bring you back.

Baruch could hear
Fay's father
bawling her out
along the balcony

his  Catholic platitudes
filling the air
he watched
from a safe distance

as Fay's fair hair
was caught
by sunlight
her father's

dark expression
like black clouds
on a summer's day
Pater Nosters

rose and fell
then he went indoor
and left her
standing there

the echo of his voice
staining the air
Baruch waved to her
and she descended

the stairs
to the balcony below
and along
where Baruch stood

what was that all about?
he asked
the nuns
reported me

meeting you
after school
the other day
she said

your daughter
is meeting the Jew
they'd said
he said

Fay looked back
behind her
as she touched
Baruch's arm

you're not to meet
the Jew boy
he was shouting
said he'd give me

a good hiding
if I saw you again
she said
looking up

at the balcony above
Baruch looked
at her fair hair
let loose

unfettered by bow
or ribbon
over her
blue dress

guess we mustn't
be seen then
he said softly
by Burton's window

in half hour
she said
and fled
along the balcony

and up the stairs
to her father's flat
Baruch watched
her go

the sway
of her dress
the hair in flow
then gone

from sight
just going out
he said
to his mother

at her ironing
in the front room
ok
she said

be careful
and so he
went down the stairs
and across the Square

down the *****
and along Rockingham Street
under the railway bridge
and along by

the back
of the cinema
and on to
the New Kent Road

down the subway
along the echoing passage
thinking of Fay
and her father

and his ways
he whistled
as he walked
his sound echoing

along the walls
a Hebrew tune
he'd heard
whistling loud

like a noisy bird
then up the steps
to the place to meet
by Burton's window

on the corner
of St George Road
traffic
racing by

waiting for Fay
her beauty
to greet
his Jewish eye.

Lydia's mother
opened the door
of the flat
after I had knocked

and gave me
a stern stare
is Lydia coming out?
I asked

she looked hard
at me
where?
to the herbalist

get some sarsaparilla
I said
sarsaparilla?
she said

yes it's good for you
they say
makes blood
I said

she looked
at my scuffed shoes
and blue jeans
and the gun and holster

hanging
from the snake head
elastic belt
around my waist

I suppose she can
her mother said
LYDIA
she bellowed

windows rattled
a dog
across the Square
barked

the milkman's horse
lifted its head
from the nosebag
Lydia came to the door

and poked her head
out from under
her mother's arm
Benedict here

wants to take you
to get a sarsaparilla
Lydia looked at you
her eyes narrowing

then widening
ok
she said
can I go?

she asked
course if I say so
as long
as you are wrapped warmer

than you are now
her mother said
Lydia rushed back inside
and her mother

took a long drag
of a cigarette
her yellowing fingers
in a V shape

what's your father
do for a living?
she asked
the smoke carrying

her words to me
he's a metal worker
I said
he makes things

from metal
she stared at me
a few loose hairs
had escaped

the flowery scarf
about her head
I think
he frequents ******

she said
I see
I said
unsure

what she was saying
she inhaled
on the cigarette again
her eyes

gazing beyond me
keep Lydia out
a fair while
she said

pushing out smoke
I want to rest
my eyes a while
ok

I said
she went indoors
and I waited for Lydia
sniffing in the smoke

hanging about
the doorstep
the dog barked again
the horse ate

from the nosebag
the milkman whistled
a few notes
from some tune

I sniffed the smoke again
hoping Lydia
would be out
wrapped warm soon.

I like wearing
your black flat cap;
I feel near to you
when I do.

I imagine what thoughts
may have run
through your mind
when you wore it last,

whom you were talking to,
what day, what eyes
met yours.
I like the feel

of the cloth,
the warmth it gives,
the closeness
to you, too, I guess,

your death an ache
deep as space,
endless seeming.
There is a closeness

wearing the black flat cap,
as if you watch me
walking slow,
the town, the street,

you close by,
stepping behind or beside
in your invisible step,
unseen feet,

close by,
keeping watch,
keeping an eye.
I wish you were here

wearing your own
black flat cap,
keeping you warm,
your thoughts

your own,
that silent way,
deep love
and thoughts;

wish you were here,
my son, here today.

Your black,
heavy overcoat,
hangs from a hook
on the door.

It looks
haunted now,
a black phantom
of serge, with arms,
without hands,
unbuttoned,
holding a memory
of you inside its hold,
snuggled up within,
safe from the cold.

Your youngest brother
has inherited,
your black coat now,
he wears it higher,
being taller,
but it does not fit
so snug or hold him
so tight as it did you,
a short while ago.

He wore it
to your funeral,
buttoned up neat,
your heavy overcoat,
serge of black;
but he would gladly
have given to you,
if he could have
had you back.

I finger the sleeves,
smooth along
the black serge,
sense you there still,
in my mind's eye,
with black hat and tie
and black shades,
that Blues Brother gaze,
back in the good times,
my son, in your
good young days.