I watch
as Yehudit
walks towards me,
the sway of her hips,

her hair held back
with grips,
her blue eyes lowered,
her hands

in the pockets
of her dark green coat.
It's late November,
chill winds,

greying sky;
we meet on the edge
of the woods.
Got held up,

she says,
Mum wanted me
to help fold
the washing.

She knows you're here
meeting me?
Yes, of course,
although didn't

say where;
she assumes
it's at your house
with your mother

keeping an eye.
She looks towards
the wood.
May have been

a better idea,
than out here,
she says.
We can go

to my place
if you like,
my mother
won't mind.

Then we won't
be alone.
Yehudit looks at me.
We can always sit

in the front lounge,
I suggest,
no one goes
in there much.

She looks
at the woods.
Ok, then,
your house it is.

We make our way
towards the house,
through the back gate,
in through

the back door.
My mother's at the stove,
preparing dinner,
steam rising

from the pots and pans.
Ok, if we go  
through to
the front lounge?

I ask her.  
Hello, Yehudit;
sure you can,
she says,

watching as we walk
through the middle room
into the front lounge
and close the door.

We sit in
the two seater settee.
Her hand finds mine.
We're next to each other.

No wind, no rain,
just us, alone;  
outside
the pitter patter

of rain,
and the wind's moan.

Unforgettable.
The tall girl he saw
Getting on the bus

And who then sat down
Opposite him with
Her short skirt and big

Black sunglasses that
Covered her eyes. That
Was last May. He can

Still picture her now
Today: the short skirt,
The blonde hair, the way

The big sunglasses
Reflected their small
Images of him

Sitting opposite.
She never spoke; just
Stared straight ahead her

Focus on something
Beyond him as far
As he could decide.

Maybe she was just
Avoiding his gaze,
Looking over his

Head or shoulder, or
Perhaps something more
Importance caught her

Gaze or interest.
He’d never know, just
Speculation on

An incident of
The past. But he still
Couldn’t get her out

Of his mind. Sometimes
He thought he saw her
On other buses

On different days,
But it wasn’t, it
Was just some who

Wore sunglasses the
Same or a short skirt
Similar in its

Colour or design.
He regrets now not
Speaking or asking

Her name or potted
Biography in
The short time allowed.

He’s not seen her since
Outside of his mind
Or occasional

Dream, just the false hope
Of seeing her once
More someplace with big

Sunglasses, short skirt,
Blonde hair and her bright
Angel looking face.

The old monk
limps into Vespers,

his black robes hang
to one side

like an old ship's sails
blown in a harsh wind.

I inhale the smell
of fresh baked bread

and stale bricks
in the afternoon cloister;

she had kissed me
and opened up

like a young blossom
in sharp Spring.

Dom Charles,
bespectacled,

reads from the life
of Mary Tudor,

as the monks ate
in the refectory;

queen's tale
and ****** story.

She sat there
on the gate
at the back

the black skirt
raised slightly
showing knees

her white blouse
unbuttoned
at the top

a warm sun
on her head
of neat hair

she waited
for Benny
balancing

herself there
next door's mutt
barked at her

go away
she bellowed
Benny came

shooed the mutt
o it's you
why're you here?

fine welcome
Lizbeth said
all this way

to see you
didn't know
you'd be here

he told her
she climbed down
from the gate

and stood there
her small *******
pushing out

on the cloth
of her blouse
well I'm here

aren't you pleased?
she asked him
course I am

just surprised
that you're here
where to go

that's the thing
where we can
be alone

and do things
do what things?
he asked her

you know what
don't pretend
you don't know

she replied
the sun shone
on her head

and shoulders
reflected
in her eyes

(yes he knew
what she meant
but he said)

I don't know
what you mean
Benny lied.

Listen kid, Max’s father says,
All a broad wants is babies,
The rest is incidental, have a

Good look at them, see how
They’re built, they’re built
For breeding kids, nature’s

One concern the survival of
The species. Max looks at his
Father’s cigar that wags as

He talks, the smoke going up
In short bursts. And kid, don’t
Let them fool you with all that

Love talk, it’s just their yak to
Keep you sweet, and they want
Guys to get all gooey eyed when

The babies are around and expect
The dough handing to them to
Keep the kids, to keep them on

The way to growing up. Max nods
And remembers his mother yelling
At his father not to wake the baby,

You’re too heavy footed, you talk
Too loud, and that cigar smoke it’s
Everywhere. And kid, whatever you

Do don’t settle down too soon,
Don’t get trapped in the spidery web
Of a broad’s charms, don’t get too

Serious too soon, kid, hold out a little,
Run the field, find the cheap dames,
Give the serious motherly types the

Wide berth. Max blows a huge bubble
With his gum, his father’s words take
Wing around his ears like black bats

In evening flight. And kid, don’t let
Them tame you with their words and
Ways or haul you in with lines of woe and

Love needs; hold out as long as you can,
Don’t be like the rest of the wimps, be like
Your old man. Max nods and puts on his

Steely stare as his father drives off in his car.
When Max grows up, he wants to smoke a cigar.

The black robed monk
walks from the woods
by the abbey

carrying two
dead rabbits,
their head lolling

by his leg.
I wash the pots
and pans

in the abbey kitchen
with soapy water;
I recall her

biting into my neck,
her hands investigating
my fellow,

her fingers
like bird's beaks
reaching for

a morning worm.
The French monk
sits in

the choir stall
in the abbey church
alone with his God

muttering in Latin
some recent sin.

I'm sitting on a fence
by the field
opposite the drive
leading to the church

it's a fine day
sun is out
birds are flying
and singing

I can smell flowers
in the air
and smells
from the cows nearby

Jane said
to meet her here
I wait
watching the drive

then she appears
she's dressed
in a green
flowered dress

her dark hair
is in bunches
tied with green ribbon
I like how she walks

her dress flapping
about her
her hands by her side
I get off the fence

and go meet her
she smiles
I smile
she waves

I wave
been waiting long?
I've been helping Daddy
with his sermon

for Sunday
o good
no not been waiting long
(I had

but I wouldn't
tell her that)
do you mind
walking with me

to the post office
and shop
I need to get
something

for my mother?
no sure
be good to walk
with you

so we walk
and I notice
she has a bag
wrapped up

in her left hand
her other hand is free
and is near me
I want to hold it

but don't want
to seem presumptuous
she talks of her cat
which has had kittens

and tells me
their colouring
and what they
get up to

and what
she feeds them on
and I am listening
not for the subject matter

but for the sound
of her voice
and her near by me
her hand close to mine

mere inches away  
she asks about my pets
we have a cat
it's black and white  

and it doesn't
get on well
with our dog
and chases her

whenever
she gets too near
o dear
Jane says

why is that?
no idea
maybe they'll
get on later

I say
our hands
are nearly touching
hers small and pale

and mine waiting there
itching to hold
but I don't
not until I'm told.

The best is yet to come, he’d said. But you
Think that’s down the drain now after last night.
Yet it started all right, him in a good
Mood, the bottle of wine, the food prepared,

The music low, the right week, the two kids
Away. You’d even put on the new dress
he’d bought, bright red, but a little short, but
He didn’t mind, he said it made you look

Sexier and more desirable. You
Never brought up your husband’s demise last
Year, you mentioned it on the first date, he
Just said, too bad, nothing more. You’d put your

Late husband’s photo in the drawer out of
Sight. After the wine and meal and warm shared
Conversation on the sofa and hot
Kisses and holds, you both transferred to the

Bedroom and quickly undressed and made love.
Or rather you didn’t, at least not how
You thought of it before, he treated you
Like some downtown *****, even beat you up

Once or twice or more leaving you ******,
Soaked and ******. The best is yet to come, he’d
Said the first time you met and he normal
And kind and quite the regular guy. That

Was before last night and the awful ***,
The split lip and black eye. You stare out of
The window at the rising day and the
Sunlight and think of better days before

Last night and the fall from grace. No more of
That, no more of him, no more of that ****.
You won’t see him anymore, the *******
You don’t care for him no more, not one bit.

Moldriss studies the woman opposite,
He wants to lay his head in her lap and
Sniff her femininity, sense any sweetness
Of virginity. He can picture his head there

Lying without motion, closing the eyes,
Warming into her thighs. She sits up
And stares out of the window; her blonde
Haired head turning away, her hands

Folding in her lap. Maybe those hands
Could finger his ears as he lay in her lap,
Could lean her lips to his cheek and kiss.
He wants always to remember her there,

Her lap so inviting, just waiting there, her
Hands resting like small guards to her palace
Of joy and birth. She turns forward and
Looks at him, her eyes a pale blue, her lips

Parted slightly, her hand lifts to brush hair
From her eyes, and he wanting to lay his
Head in her lap, on thighs, imagining *******
Her nightly. She looks away shyly, watching

Trees and fields passing by the train window;
Maybe she senses his head in her lap, his
Nose sniffing out her femininity like some pig
Sniffing for truffles, his eyes closing, his ear

Waiting to be fingered by her small hand,
And he just laying there in his dream like
Some sad prophet in a once promised land.

I probably shouldn't
come this far from home
Fay says

we stand
by Westminster Bridge
gazing over
at Big Ben

it's not far
only a bus ride
from home
besides you've got
to see the world

she seems unsettled
but if Daddy finds out
he'll be mad
because I never asked
his permission

say I took you

that will make it worse
he doesn't like you
she says it softly
looking down
at the Thames

the feelings mutual
but I still like
being with you

she looks pretty
in her pink
flowered dress
and her fair hair
tied in a pony tail

I like being with you
but it's just
he gets mad
if I don't ask
his permission
to do things

if you asked him
he'd not let you go
I say

I know
she says
that's what
I'm afraid of

well don't tell him

he might find out

who's going to tell him?

I don't know
he just seems to know

enjoy the day
forget him
I say
we can go see
Westminster Abbey
and you can say
you went into pray

he'll say it not
a Catholic church
anymore
it doesn't count

what God only listens
to prayers
from a Catholic church?

she smiles
it's what he thinks
not me

forget him
enjoy the now
here together
watching the boats
on the Thames
the bridge
the people passing
the sunshine

she nods
and we walk over
the Bridge to go
visit the Abbey

and maybe later
buy an ice cream each
far from her old man's
eyes and his
narrow minded reach
and eyes so cold
after all
we were just kids
aged 12 years old.

The Kid sits
opposite
the wheelchair

with Anne
telling him
about her

painful leg
when it aches
it frigging

drives me mad
she tells him
she pulls up

her red skirt
to show him
the naked

stump of leg
yet it aches
in the part

that's not there
she explains
he gapes at

the fleshy
stump of leg
why is that?

he asks her
how the heck
would I know

pull that down
this moment
the nun says

angrily
coming near
from the home

her black and
white habit
flapping quick

about her
Anne stares
at the nun

what's got your
white knickers
in a twist?

she utters
to the nun
who do you

think you are
showing off
your leg stump?

she yanks down
the red skirt
to cover

the leg stump
don't touch me
you penguin

Anne says
decency
my young girl

you Benny
why are you
watching her?

the nun asks
I showed him
where it hurts

Anne says
you shouldn't
show your leg

it's my leg
what is left
don't be rude

the Kid looks
at the nun
just looking

what she showed
just her stump
he explains

you mustn't
the nun says
anymore

doing that
young Anne
and I'll tell

Sister Paul
and the nun
walks away

her habit
flapping slow
about her

as she walks
what a dumb
arsed penguin

Anne says
they both watch
the young nun

as she walks
on the lawn
to the home

for sick kids
by the sea
anyway

that's my leg
or the stump
do you want

another
look and see?

Enid's old man
passes me
in the Square

he gives me
the tough guy stare
trying to scare

I give a smirk
(the ****)
look at his dark eyes
his stubble
then he's gone by
off to work
down the *****
out of sight

I look up
at the flats
a bag of bread rolls
in my hands
(my mother's shopping)

I wonder how
Enid was
whether her old
man had had
a go at her
had left
a fleshy medal
on her skin
blue green
sinking in

I walk up
the concrete stairs
passing by
the landings
until I saw Enid
on the top step
sitting there

what you doing here?
I ask

my dad threw me
out here
said I was not
to go back in
until my mother
called me in

why's that?

he said I'd been naughty
and had to wait
in the cold air
as punishment

I sat beside her
on the cold stair
when will your mother
call you in?

he said not
for twenty minutes
she says shivering

you can't sit
out here that long

I must

no way
come to our flat
and wait
then go out

I can't
what if mother calls
and I'm not there

will she tell him?

yes she's frightened of him
of course she will
Enid says

how long
to wait now?
I saw your old man
just go

twenty minutes
from now I guess

then come to our flat
for fifteen minutes
then we'll wait
on the stairs?

she closes her eyes
hugs herself
I can't
in case he finds out
she says

wait here
I say
and go in my flat
and give my mother
the bread rolls
and tell her

she butters two rolls
and puts in cheese
and I take them
out to Enid
on the stair
and we sit together
eating
as if we
didn't care.

Helen awakes
to dawn's light.

Tick tock
of hall clock.

Light peeps
through blue curtains
like a nosey child.

What day is it?
she muses.

Monday.

Sighs.

Looks at her doll,
Battered Betty,
beside her
in the bed;
one eye open,
one eye shut,
dressed in
an old grey dress.

Time?

Radio plays
from sitting room.

Music drifts.

Tick tock
of hall clock.

She counts.

Seven fifteen.

Tick tock.

Time to get up.

Sighs.

Pushes back
grey blankets.

Puts her feet
onto the cold
linoleum floor.

Cold.

She sits
on the edge
of her bed;
looks at her toes,
her feet.

She looks back
at Betty.

Lazy girl.

Sighs.

She gets up
and walks
to the window.

Peeps through
the curtains
at day's dull light.

Coldness bites
at her limbs.

She stares
at the wall opposite;
dull coloured bricks.

She can smell
bacon frying.

Breakfast.

She walks across
her room
on cold linoleum.

Opens the door,
goes out
and closes door;
leaves Betty
to sleep.

She walks down
the passage.

Radio plays.

Music filters.

Bacon smell.

Her mother is
at the gas cooker
frying bacon.

Her hair in curlers,
dark hair,
plump features.

Fairies wake you up?
Mother asks.  

No, just woke up,
Helen says,
sniffing the air,
looking at
the kitchen/ bathroom.

The table has been lowered
over the bath.

Plates set out.

Wash before food,
Mother says.

Helen takes
the boiled water
in the kettle
to the sink
and places a plug
in the hole
and pours
the water in.

She puts the kettle
back on the stove.

She turns on
the cold tap
and feels
the water get
to the right
temperature.

Turns off the tap.

Rolls up the sleeves
of her night dress
and washes: neck,
face and hands.

Dries on the towel
behind the door.

Go and sit
in the sitting room
and I'll bring in
your breakfast,
Mother says.

Helen walks through
the passage
to the sitting room.

Her father is
at the dining table.

Tea sipping.

Smoking
a cigarette.

Smoke rises
to the ceiling.

She gets that
dull Monday morning,
yuk school,
feeling.

I'd taken Ingrid
to see a film
about Daniel Boone
in some flea pit cinema
in Camberwell Green

and we stood outside
and waited
for a bus home
and it started
to spit with rain

she looked cold

should have brought
your raincoat
I said

it's torn at the arm
and Mum hasn't
mended it yet
she said

about time
she did then
what's she waiting for
summer?

Dad told her
to make me wait
for being naughty

I looked at her
standing there shivering
her brown hair
getting damp
and looking bedraggled
her grey dress
beginning
to cling to her

here have my jacket
I said

but then you'll
get wet

so what
I'm a boy
I'm like Daniel Boone
I can take stuff
what's rain?
just water
coming down vertically

so I took off my coat
and put it
around her
and she held it
tight around her

that better?

yes warmer
she said  

I stood there
getting wet
my sleeveless jumper
and shirt dampening

now I feel guilty
you getting wet
she said

I like getting wet
reminds me
of the soldiers
in WW1
in the trenches
getting wet
standing in mud
and some one
firing at them
this is a piece
of cake compared

my uncle said
he'd get me
a new coat
she said
but Dad
won't let him

is that the uncle
who gives you money
for doing things?

she nodded

just as well
you don't get
the coat
or God knows
what you'd have
to do for that
I said

she looked away
going a tomato red.

She said Hem
had hit her

I saw the bruise
on her arm

she was next to me
on the balcony
of the flats
looking down
into the Square

where'd he go?
I asked

don't know
you know
what my brother's like
Lydia said

we scanned the area
about the flats
over by the fence
that led
to the grass area

what did
your mother say?

She said
she'd have a word
with him
but he gets
away with it
and Dad said
o he's a boy
boys do that    

I had him
the other month
when he threw
that firework
at my sister
I said

I know
he told Dad
but Dad said
stick up for yourself
don't whine to me

I chased him
across the Square
and down the *****
and across the road
where I cornered him
against the wall
and thumped him
to the ground

she sighed
he never learns
she said

I looked at her
beside me
dressed in the grey
and red dress
her brown hair
straight and thin
the bruise was blue
on her arm
her arm was thin
as was she
altogether

let's not waste time
looking for him Benny
let's go
to the train station
and look at
the steam trains
going through

I sighed
I wanted to thump Hem

but I said
ok let's go
I'll get him later
if he'll show.

The French
peasant monk
pushed a wheel barrow

along by
the abbey church;
the squeaky wheels

echoing through
the nearby wood
and throughout

the silent cloister;
his tonsured head
lowered,

back bent,
prayers simple
maybe said.

I tended
the dying monk,
aged and fragile

as an ancient script
of yesteryear;
I recalled how

she tongued me
along
my inner thighs,

bringing tears of joy
into my hazel eyes.
Dom Gregory prepared

the altar for mass,
laying the altar cloth,
preparing the priest monk's

robes and gowns,
making sure
the candles were ready;

his footfalls
like echoes  
on a deep deep sea.

What have you there?
Janice asks

I show her
the 10 Weights
cigarettes packet

where'd you find them?

outside
the Duke of Wellington pub
some one
must have dropped them
I say

she looks at them
then at me

what are you going
to do with them?

give them
to my old man
I guess
he smokes these

won't he want
to go
how you came
by them?

he won't care
he never
asks questions
like that

I put the cigarettes
in the back pocket
of my jeans

my gran asks me
all questions
Janice says
I am so open
with her
because I can't tell
a lie to her
she seems to know

will you tell her
I found the smokes?

not if
she doesn't
ask me

I smoked a cigarette
once or twice
I tell her

where'd you get
a cigarette from?

I made it
out of cigarette
**** ends I found
and borrowed
a cigarette paper
from my uncle
(he didn't know)
and made one

her eyes enlarge

did you smoke it?

yes of course

what did it
taste like?

bitter
and made me
cough and splutter
I say

she puts her hand
to her mouth
her blue eyes
stare at me
as if I'd said
a rude word
or plucked feathers
from a living bird.

Two monks pick fruit
from bushes
in the abbey gardens,

the early
afternoon sun
blesses

their tonsured heads,
a black beaded rosary
hangs

from the leather belt
of the younger one.
I polish the wood

of the choir stalls
with beeswax
and a yellow duster;

I remember her softness,
her opening wide,
the scent of hair

as I moved in
and lay there.
The Austrian monk,

head to one side,
sups his soup
in the refectory

off the old
French spoon,
listening to the reader

read of Cromwell,
and the thought of Compline
and bed quite soon.

There's a baby crying
from another room
a dog barking
from across the road

Helen opens her eyes
to her bedroom
her mind focuses
as much
it can
in morning's light

her younger sister
sleeps next to
her mouth open
eyes closed
hands resting on top
of the blanket

what day is it?
Helen asks herself
she calculates
Saturday yes Saturday

she smiles
no need to get up
just yet
she turns away
from her sister
and looks
at the wall
at her side
with green flowered
wall paper
torn in places
where her sister
has ripped it

she has to ask her mum
about the cinema
Benny said to go
but she wasn't sure
her mum would let her
or could afford
for her to go

I'll pay for you
Benny had said
the previous day
at school
I've got some
pocket money still

but she couldn't
just say yes
without her mum
knowing or agreeing

she sits up
and looks
at her sister sleeping
and gets up
and stands
on the cold floor
and goes to the window
and looks out

her mum is up
and in the kitchen
she can hear
saucepans being used
and her mum talking

she gets out of her bedroom
and along
to the kitchen/wash-room

what's got you out of bed
on a Saturday?
her mum asks
making porridge

Benny's going
to the cinema
and asked me to go
Helen says
pretending
lack of interest

does he now
and what
did you say?

Helen looks
at her mum's
broad beam
of backside
and tight
head of curls

said I'd ask you
Helen replies

did you now
well now you've asked

Helen waits
unsure of the answer

how much is it
to the cinema then?

Benny said
it's 6d
he did say he'd pay
but I said
I wasn't going to
accept his charity
(she hadn't
but it sounded good)

don't be too proud
of charity girl
you may need it
one day
her mum says

can I go?

her mum stirs
the saucepan of porridge

ok
but don't
make a habit of it
I'm not made
of money

Helen beams
and hugs her mum's
wide waist
and kisses her hip

get on with you
and get washed
and dressed
her mum says

and Helen
full of happiness
take off her nightgown
and washes
in the sink
of soapy water
her thoughts racing
around her head
like a cat chasing
a mouse
all over
a large
many roomed
house.

It is Saturday morning
I open my eyes
and run through
my inner calendar

yes Saturday
no school
no need to rush
to get up

but I do
no time
to waste in bed
up I get

and walk through
the sitting room
to the passage
to the lavatory

and do the business
then into the kitchen
come bathroom
and put on

the kettle
for hot water
to wash
I stare at the room

while I wait
the kitchen table
is down
over the bath

I remember my uncle
sitting there
a few months back
crying

in my mother's arms
because his son
had been killed
in some war

some place
he looked
quite broken
for a while

sitting there
on the table
my mother
holding him

and I watching
from the door way
trying to make sense
of it all

the kettle boils
and I put a plug
into the one sink
and pour in

the hot water
and put the kettle
back on the stove
and undress

the top half
and taking soap
from the shelve
I do

a school boy wash
face and neck
and hands and arms
then dry all

on the towel
behind the door
I hear my mother
in the front bed room

(a wash hanging room)
she's humming a tune
must be happy
my old man

at work
(half day)
I take my top clothes
back through

the sitting room
to the bedroom
and dress
ready for breakfast

then out
to the Saturday matinee
at the cinema
at the ABC

just Helen
with her two plaits
and glasses
and me.

The well-spoken
English monk
sits

in the porter's lodge
reading his breviary;
he turns the pages

with a thin
white finger.
I watched the ships

passing by
the window
of the abbey latrines,

the moonlight
on the water;
I recall how her lips

bit into me;
her arms
enfolded me

like a Black Widow spider.
Dom Pierre sits
in the refectory,

head to one side,
his eyes staring
into the blue

(or was it an empty black)
as if God
was staring back.

Netanya
threw a cup
threw a shoe

hitting you
stormed and swore
jabbering

about this
about that
how this dame

at your work
was somehow
having you

(sexually)
then she threw
someone's coat

missing you
ran up stairs
calling names

looking round
for objects
to throw down

you went up
(cautiously)
step by step

trying to
calm her down
what's all this?

you asked her
unaware
of the cause

of the wild
eruption
you know what

seen her name
in your book
(your work book)

you've ticked it
ticked her name
she went in

the bedroom
you followed
she threw things

scent bottles
her hair brush
slapped her hand

round you face
you grabbed her
held her down

on the bed
to calm her
who is this?

what's her name?
she told you
laying there

on the bed
you don't think
she and I

are *******?
yes I do
just like you

Netanya
informed you
well you're wrong

about that
the reason
that her name's

in my book
is because
I caught her

shop-lifting
yesterday
at the store

wrote her name
for records
in future

Netanya
stared at you
is that it?

you nodded
just a girl
stupid *****

stealing shoes
she sat up
on the bed

calming down
got it wrong
about you

she muttered
have we time
for some ***?

In what's left
of my own
lunch hour?

she nodded
looking sad
OK then

I muttered
my left cheek
still stinging

and my head
bell ringing.

Shamira looks
at the sleeve
of the LP:
Mahler's 6th,
box set.

You shouldn't
spoil me.

Summer evening,
a country lane,
high hedges.

I wanted you
to have it;
it's what I think
you'll enjoy.

You can't afford
to buy me
these gifts;
you don’t have
to buy me anything.

I know;
I want to.

We go
to the local pub
and she has a wine
and I have a beer.

We sit outside,
watching the sun setting.

How are your parents?

She looks at me.

My mother's ok,
but my father's
not sure of you.

Thought not;
the way he looks at me;
different class,
I guess.

I sip my beer;
she sips her wine.

I like her
long brown hair,
tied in a ponytail;
her brown eyes,
sharp,
not deceived,
intelligent.

He worries about me,
she says,
wants the best for me.

Can't blame him;
I’m just a nurse
and poet.

She smiles.

It's more than that,
he looks to the future,
wants me up there
where my education
and grooming
is setting me.

Do you see me
as holding you back?

I don't look at things
like that;
it is people in themselves
that matters.

I light up a cigarette;
she sips her wine.

Anyway, I’m off
to university next month,
so I won't see
you that often,
she says.

Guess not.

I know she'll meet
other of her class there;
more educated,
more moneyed.

Our brief encounter
will be a history;
our love making
an episode
or margin note
in the book
of her future life.

I inhale;
I like
how she looks;
I like her small *******;
her neat
compact body
poured into her jeans
and tee shirt;
she a father's princess,
me
a dead beat flirt.

Sonya sleeps
I watch her
laying there

beside her
the moonlight
highlights her

pale features
we'd made love
more than once

now she sleeps
solo dreams
I'm awake

watching her
wondering
whom she loved

before me
she doesn't
speak of one

in her past
maybe I'm
the first one

whose made love
to this dame
maybe not

just unknown
just out there
another

in his arms
but I'm here
watching her

as she sleeps
the hot ***
simmering

on my skin
as she dreams
her hot ***

deep within.

The white haired monk
lights a candle
on the altar;

his tonsured head
bows to the Christ;
his aged fingers

hold
the long lit
taper.

I help make soup
in the kitchen,
the cook monk,

watches
my every move;
I recall

how she ******
me in,
her whole body

vibrated
to my motion.
Dom James walks

from the orchard,
a basket of fruit
beneath his arm;

the sun warm,
the hour
a midday calm.

Abela waits for me
at a table outside
some cafe in town

she's smoking
and looking at the book
she'd brought

a waitress had taken her order
of coffee and pancakes  

a guy a few tables a way
gives her the eye
he sits one leg
crossed over the other
he's confident of his looks
and the bright shirt he's wearing
he smokes a French cigarette
even though he's not in France
he studies her figure
drinks in her legs
coming down
from her short skirt
the feet in her sandals

she senses him looking
(how do you dames do that?)
she looks at him
over the pages
of her open book

he smiles
moves his head to one side
as if to suggest
she go sit next to him

she lowers her eyes
to the page
tries to take in the words
but she's lost it now
and her mind
has been invaded by him
she's beginning to wonder
where I've got to
and stares at the page
of her book
(****** book anyway)

the guy's smile
seems frozen to his face
his eyes feed on her
every visible part of her

I see Abela sitting
at the table
outside the cafe

I have managed to shower
myself sober to a degree
but a headache lingers
at the corner of my mind
like an actor
waiting to come on stage
when the times right

I take a seat opposite her
I've arrived
I say

at last
thought you'd drowned yourself

you don't sound relived
that I'm here
maybe I should
have drowned
and got rid
of the lingering headache
that way

you're not the headache
that guy over there is
keeps gaping at me

how do you know
he's gaping at you?

I've looked

so you were gaping at him?

no I just sensed
he was ******* me
with his eyes

how far did he get?

it's not funny
he's intimidating me

I look behind me
at the guy
and give him
my best Clint Eastwood stare

he looks away
and waves to a waitress
I look back at Abela

did you order for me?

no wasn't sure
if you were up
to drinking
she says
from behind her book

I wave a hand to a waiter
standing by the door
of the cafe
he comes over
and I order
coke and bread roll and jam
and he nods and goes off

I see the guy behind me
chatting up the waitress
and making her laugh

I turn and look at Abela
how's the book?

she lowers it
give the guy a stare
and says
****** book
but it's better than looking
at an empty chair

well I'm here now
so we can talk

what about?

What would you like
to talk about?

last night?

what about last night?

you were making eyes
at that waitress
in the restaurant of the hotel
and being suggestive

to you?

no to her

I pull a face
and light up a cigarette
I bummed then?

yes you did
and I had to help you
to our room

thanks

don't thank me
I had help

who from?

Mr Green helped me

that old buzz?

yes that old buzz
at least he was sober
and civilized

good for him
bet his crabby wife
wasn't pleased

no she wasn't
she looked daggers

doesn't she always?

a waitress brought Abela
her coffee and pancakes
and she put down her book

I waited and watched
giving her
my softer
Clint Eastwood look.

The French
peasant monk,
head bowed,
walks

through the cloister,
carrying two buckets
full with milk
from the farm,

his eyes full
of earth's colour.
I wash
in the cold water

from the icy jug,
the cloister seen
from the window above;
I feel her legs

about me,
bringing me in;
there
in the waters

of her passion,
I nearly drown.
The old monk
allows the bell rope

to rise
through his hands,
then
pulls it down.

I wonder what they’ll find
In the depths of my broken mind
As I lift the blackout blind?
Take a peek through the window to my deepest thoughts.
It is puzzling,
Troubling,
A game I cannot win;
So take a peek through the window to my deepest thoughts.
Take a peek,
Rummage, seek
But warning please take care
Cause it’s really dark down there
And if you have no flash light to hand
Then I don’t expect you’ll understand;
But take a peek through the window to my deepest thoughts.
I tried to stand real tall
But began to fall
And I wanted to end it all.
But my family
Were saving me
Were keeping me from meeting death.
Now with every breath that I have left
Will be a fight
Cause wounds don’t heal over night
And there may come a time where I lose sight
And I may not see what is right;
So take a peek through the window to my deepest thoughts.
And tell me what you find
In the depths of my broken mind
As I lift the blackout blind;
Take a peek through the window to my deepest thoughts.

( by my son, Nathaniel)

It's snowing,
Yiska says.

She's looking out
the window
of the locked ward.

I stand
just behind her,
peering over
her shoulder,
watching the large
flakes fall
in a steady flow.

Trees opposite
are becoming covered;
they look like brides
about to get married.

The fields beyond
are white, not green.

Picturesque from in here,
I say.

She runs a finger
down the pane,
a slim finger,
white/pink skin,
the nail chewed.

What was it like
on the day
you were to marry?
I ask.

Bright, sunny,
almost cloudless.

Bet you were glad
it didn't snow.

She looks back at me.

I wouldn't have cared less
if he had turned up
and not left me there
dressed up
like a doll abandoned.

I guess not,
sorry to
have reminded you.

She sighs,
looks back
at the snow.

Not your fault
he didn't show.

I shouldn't have
reminded you.

It's always there,
anyway,
like some dark
black nightmare.

We watch
the falling snow
in a few moments
of silence.

I can smell soap
about her,
maybe shampoo;
it invades my nose.

I close my eyes.

Sense her
just before me,
as if my senses
had fingers,
but not my fingers,
but invisible fingers
reaching out to her.

Don't think
I can trust
another man
to get me
down the aisle.

I open my eyes,
see her hair,
long,
unbrushed.

I would not
have jilted you.

It wasn't you
I was going to marry.

No, I guess not.

The snow falls harder;
I can hardly see
the trees now.

She looks back at me.

Want a cigarette?
she asks.

I nod.

She takes a packet
out of her
dressing gown pocket
and takes one
for herself
and gives one
to me.

She lights them
with a yellow
plastic lighter.

How'd you managed
to keep the lighter;
thought they took  
such things away
in case you try
and set yourself alight?

I liberated it
out of the staffroom
the other night.

We stand and smoke
and watch
the heavy fall
of snow.

Behind us,
others enter the room,
their voices talking
of the snow,
how heavy it is.

We can sense
their coming near us
like invading armies
on virgins lands,
unaware
we're holding hands.

He slurps his soup,
the Dutch monk;
the monk on the stall,

reads
from
the life

of Cromwell.
I see onions swim
in the thin soup;

she invited my hand
to Eve's garden,
to **** amongst

the growth there.
The abbot
beneath

the crucifix,
bites an apple,
juices seep

from his plump chin;
as did she
with me.

The coach had left Paris
and it was still dark
apart from street lights
and they became less

as we got
to the countryside
music was coming out
the coach radio

some Mozart
some French
radio station
Miriam sat next to me

her head slowly
resting on my shoulder
her curly red hair
tickling my cheek

she'd swapped with Bill
at the restaurant
in Paris
he sat with

some other guy
whom she's *******
beside her
music makes me sleepy

she said dreamily
don't mind me
resting on you
do you?

no sure
go ahead
I'd said
and she had

I thought of my mother
and her parting words
be careful
of your wallet

and your morals
and changed
your underwear
every day

I had my wallet
safety-pinned
in my coat pocket
and I changed

that morning
at the Dover B&B;
Miriam was nodding off
the slight sway

of the coach
meant she slowly
drifted into me
I saw her reflection

in the darkened
window beside me
her eyes closed
her mouth open

my shoulder
her rest
I studied
the pink

reflection cleavage
of her soft breast.

I sat opposite Sophia
in the staff room

she crossed her legs
looked at me
smiled
her eyes twinkling

O I know
I thought
I know what this
is all about

but the others
in the staff room
didn't know
(thank God)
they chatted
amongst themselves
as women do
(I was the only male
in the nursing home)

but Sophia had that look
that look that said
I nearly had you
in that old guy's
bed upstairs
just now
nearly kurwa
as she
would have said

I sipped my tea
and ate the cake
cook had left

it had been
a near thing
the way Sophia
had thrown me
on the bed
with all her
Polish determination

I had to struggle
(yes struggle-
what was wrong
with me?)
off the bed

you not like me?
she said

course I do
but not here
not now
I had said

she uncrossed
her legs
then crossed
them again slowly
wanting me to look

but I looked
at the teapot
cheap
battered
steam pouring
from the spout

you want more?
Sophia said
across the room
more tea?

I shook my head
and all looked
at her
then at me.

She has sunshine
in her hair,
like sun
on fields of corn.

I walk there,
brushing my fingers
through the softness.
She welcomes me in,

in I swim
through the waves
of her love;
she is my siren,

I, a drowning ******.
Her lips are as fruit,
I am upon them
as a child greedy

for sustenance;
her moistness
embraces me.
Her thighs are ocean-like,

I bathe as one
needing salvation,
ablutions to a new end,
will this release

the dead me
or mend?

He pushes
an old wheel barrow,
the French monk,

loaded with manure,
fork sticking out
at the front end;

he walks along
the track
by the abbey,

head down,
thinking of Christ,
no doubt ,

and His
loaded cross.
I polish

the choir stall wood
with a yellow dust cloth
and orange

polish-muck;
she let me lay
my head

between her thighs,
murmuring sighs.
The old monk,

lays out the altar,
prepares things
for the high mass

that morning
with the seriousness
of a sad mourner.

Frankie folds
her hankie
into neat

triangles
he watches
how fingers

so nimble
can also
form tight fists

for defence
yet these hands
so often

caress him
bring him on
to the point

Frankie wipes
her thin lips
why are you

looking so
Johnny boy?
She asks him

O nothing
just thinking
(on how she

manages
to hold his
young pecker

so gently)
about what?
He smiles some

boyish smile
bet I know
what's on that

mind of yours
Johnny boy
what is that?

He answers
taking in
her peach like

******* beneath
orange cloth
*** of course

all you think
about's that
no you're wrong

I wasn't
he replies
so what then?

My beauty?
My fine teeth?
My long hair?

Your fingers
how nimble
they perform

simple tasks
(how nimble
caressing

his body
her fingers
running down

his back bone)
you liar
Johnny boy

you're thinking
of that night
we made love

and my hands
potter's hands
brought you up

like fine clay
to the point
of hotness

guess you're right
those fingers
I could ****

each one so
that's enough
Johnny boy

time for school
keep it cool
keep it cool

and they walk
sulkily
to lessons

on history
about war
and bloodshed

but he wants
to make hot
love instead.

Do you believe that?

Nima lights up
a cigarette
after the question.

It's a matter of faith
not scientific fact.

She smiles.

Even faith
needs some basis
on the possible,
I mean
a ****** birth?
you believe that?

Benedict looks at her
sitting there
by the fountain
in Trafalgar Square.

With God
all things
are possible.

****** birth
is possible?
you think that?

He looks
at the jawline,
the cheeks pale,
******* holding
the cigarette.

Sure, I do,
like other
articles of faith.

She shakes her head,
stares at him.

Nietzsche said
some place
that God's only excuse
is he doesn't exist.

Without God
there is no purpose
in anything,
he says;
it's all pointless,
absurd.

She sighs.

Maybe that is
the reality,
this absurdity,
but it doesn't mean
therefore
God must exist,
she adds,
looking out
at the people
in the Square,
by the fountains.

Without God
there is no beginning,
no beginning
therefore no end,
just endless turmoil,
he says,
looking at needle marks
on her skin
where the juice
ran in.

Let's go
for a beer and burger,
she says,
then I must get back
to the hospital
before they go
over the top.

He nods and they walk
through the Square,
pass the fountains,
and people,
and she flicks
her cigarette ****
as she went;
like her,
like her life
all spent.

He goes to Rome
tomorrow,
the young monk,

tall, clothed in black.
I shake his hand
as other do

by the refectory door;
she opens herself
to me

like a forest flower
even in
my holy sleep.

The old monk
turns in his dying,
the church bells

chime him
the hour
in a steady peal.

The smell of
fresh coffee
and bacon

Milka's mum
opposite
drinking tea

her dark eyes
focusing
on young me

won't be long
she tells me
but she likes

her warm bed
and mornings
are not her

favourite
time of day
(I knew that

Milka liked
her warm bed
I’d been there

unbeknown
to her mum)
want some toast?

Or more coffee?
No I’m fine
I reply

listening
for movement
of Milka

from upstairs
I recall
her small bed

us in there
(her parents
had gone out

to the shops
her brothers
and my friends

gone fishing)
us warm there
making love

listening
to the bed
for a car

returning
birds singing
cows mooing

from a field
what’s it like
with Milka?

Her mother
inquires
O it's good

(she's broken
my thought chain)
she can be

a handful
don't you find?
Yes she can

I reply
seeing my
reflection

in her left
and right eye.

I saw you
keep staring
Yochana
says to me
while in class
this morning

we're watching
other kids
by the fence
at recess

why do you
stare at me?

I like you
I tell her

she looks out
at the field

why would you?
She asks me

I just do
no reason

you kissed me
on the cheek
suddenly

I remember
it was good

she looks round
stares at me

not for me
it wasn't
she then adds
at the time

and what now?
I ask her

I’m confused
what I feel
inside me

like when you
hear Chopin?

She blushes
looks away
watching kids
on the field
at their play

can I kiss?
I ask her

not right here
she mutters

where abouts?

I don't know
where abouts
but not here

you're pretty
I tell her

she pretends
she's not heard

after school
if you like
just before
your school bus
is filled up
she suggests

all right then
I reply

we stand there
by the fence
in silence.

The young guy turns
towards Bill
in the single bed;
his blue eyes
are as innocent
as cheese.

I thought you
were a gonna
back at that bar,
the young guy says.

Bill sighs, moves up
in the bed, getting
the young guy
into focus.

But you took them out
before I could blink,
the young guy adds.

One has to weigh out
the ends and means,
Bill says.

But you're an old guy,
I thought that was it.

Bill reaches
for a cigarette
from the bedside table
and opens it
and takes out one
and offers,
but the young guy
shakes his head,
so Bill lights up
and puffs away.  

You **** good.

The youth blushes,
looks at Bill,
then away
at the room.

Small, Spartan,
few bits of furniture,
few belongings.

You live here?

Now and then.

Where'd you live mostly?

Out of a suitcase.

The young guy
stares at Bill.

What was your job?

Government business.

C.I.A or FBI?

Can't say
or if I did
I’d have to **** you.

The young guy
begins to smile,
but Bill doesn't,
the youngster
stops smiling.

Something like that,
though?

Something like that.

The  youth
nods his head.

Did you meet
any one famous?

Bill exhales
and stares at the kid.  

I knew the Kennedys,
met Saddam and Gaddafi
and other creeps like that.

The youth opens
his eyes wide.

Really knew them?

Bill nods, looks away.

I knew them;
now they're all dead.

Who killed JFK?

Bill smiles;
can't tell you,
but you'll
find out one day.

Did you?

Bill shook his head;
no I was just
a young novice then;
I met Jack K
in a passage way
in the Big House,
back in 1962;
he tapped my shoulder,
had a nice smile,
liked the dames.

The kid looks
at Bill deeply.

Were you sad
when JFK died?  

I don't get sad
about things,
I survive
and move on;
now no more questions,
get me a coffee
and then
we can get back
to bed work again.

The young guy
nods his head,
gets up and goes
to the small kitchen
and makes two coffees;
on a wall,
pinned by a single pin
is a picture
of a blonde girl
and underneath
is scrawled in red ink:
innocent or guilty:
what do you think?

Her father jokes
all through supper,
calls her
his frumpy pie;

her sister giggles,
the slim one
with the beauty
found in bottles

and jars.
Elaine knows
she's frumpy,
knows she lacks

her sister's looks,
her sister’s flair,
the smoothness
of her sister's hair.

She eats slow,
in deep thought,
nibbling not eating,
her mother says,

her voice whining
over the table
towards her
like nuclear fallout

of dull dust.  
She daren't tell them
John had kissed her lips
nor where his hand

had sort to go;
she stopped him,
but didn't want to,
though.

The French monk
scythes the tall grass
on the long drive
to the monk’s abbey;

there is a humbleness
about him
like inexpensive
wine.

I sweep
the refectory floor;
her legs were short,
down-like hair

was there,
I ran my fingers up
seeking her secret cup.
The monk in the kitchen

smiles and shows
his few teeth,
wrinkles explode
about his eyes,

I see the morning sunlight,
as if that,
was where
the sun lies.

I want to be with you,
Yiska says.

It's raining,
we're in the main hall,
looking out
at the downpour,
other kids are
in groups talking,
others are playing
card games,
others are running around
playing tag games.

We are together.

Alone together,
not here with these.

I study her
standing there,
her eyes focusing
on the rain,
her arms crossed
in frustration.

Can't be helped,
I say.

We could go elsewhere
and be alone.

She turns
and looks at me.

Where?

Any where’s better
than here.

Let's go see
where is free.

We walk through
the hall,
passing kids,
looking out
for prefects or teachers.

We walk out
in a corridor,
passing other kids
on the move,
prefects rushing by.

In here,
she says,
pulling me
by the hand
into the gym.

She closes the door.

Empty and quiet.

I look around the gym.

Smell of sweat
and wet clothes.

She takes me further in
and we go over
behind the screened
off area
where mats
and equipment are kept.

Here will do.

Do for what?

She kisses me
and draws me
close to her.

I sense her body
against mine;
her small *******
against my chest.

She tastes of
bubblegum and milk.

Her lips are open,
her teeth visible.

I want you,
she says,
I dream of having
you alone.

We are alone.

Not for long though,
be end of recess soon.

I kiss her,
lips on skin,
on cheek,
lips on lips.

We pause
listening to the rain;
outside the upper window
where the raindrops drip.

We walk along the lane
from the church
after the service;
high hedges,
fields beyond,
warm sun,
birds singing.

Can't meet you
this afternoon,
Yehudit says.

Why's that?

She looks at me
with her big eyes.

Mother says
she wants me
to do some chores.

After the chores?

She shrugs
her shoulders.

Don't think
she'll let me out then.

Be a good
for a walk
by our lake
(her name
for the pond).

She looks away.

I study her profile;
drink her in.

I think some one
may have told her
about us
by the lake.

What about us
by the lake?

You know
the other week.

I look back
at her sister
walking behind
with another.  

Who said anything?

I look at her.

Don't know,
she didn't say
she knew
just the way
she looks at me
and how
she's been recently.

So someone
has been spying
on us?

Looks like it,
but I don't
know who.

I like our lake,
like the whole
scenery there,
the birds,
the ducks,
swans.

I know,
she says,
but I can't go,
least not today.

A car passes us,
a ****** goes,
a hand waves.

Maybe we can
make a quick detour
before you go home?

Not with her with us,
she says,
pointing to
her younger sister
behind us.

Will she talk?
I ask.

She always talks.

Let her go in front
of us for a while.

So we hang back
and her sister passes
talking to another.

She's prettier than I am.

You're pretty enough
for me.

I take her hand
and draw her
into a gap
in the hedge
and we kiss.

Lips on lips stuff,
hands caressing
each the other.

Nice body,
lovely lips,
shame about
your mother.

He sweeps the cloister,
the old monk,
with a wide broom,

shuffling, pushing.
I feel the morning breeze
hit me as I walk

from stairs to church
along the same cloister;
she had whispered

in my ears
****** suggestions
unfulfilled.

A cobweb hangs
in the church's
high gallery

like a thread
of a seamstresses' hair,
hanging there.

What the dream
was about
I have small

recollection,
only that you
were there,

there in that
black overcoat,
your broadness,

your silent presence,
and I hugged you,
my son,

and yet did not
remember you
were dead

until I woke.
I wanted
to return

to the dream
but it
had dissolved

some place
inside
my head.

He dreamt
she was
in his bed,
had crept in

without him
knowing.
He could feel
her hand

on his arm,
resting there,
her breathing slow
not rapid.

He sensed
his body stiffen
with apprehension,
with what

she might do,
and how
to explain her away
should his mother

come in and see?
But when he woke
it was his kid brother
laying there

as per norm,
not her
trying it on
as he'd feared.

But he wouldn't
tell her
when he got
to school,

he'd say nothing
to please her
and hear her say:
Did you?

And add:
of course not,
you wouldn't let me.
He saw

the morning sun
creep in
through the window,
its waking up light,

start of a new day.
He'd not tell her,
not ever,
no way.

Jane looks confused.

I kissed her
when I met her
by the water tower
in Bugs Lane.

Why did you
kiss me?

She's wearing
her grey dress
and cardigan;
her eyes look at me.

Impulse,
I didn't think,
I say,
presumptuous of me.

Presumption
is like a kind of theft.  

Sorry,
should have asked.

She looks over
the hedge
towards the farm,
then back at me.

I wasn't expecting it,
but it was nice.

I feel like a ****;
I look at her
dark hair
long and untied
by ribbons
as she does sometimes.

If you'd been a peach
I’d have nibbled.

She smiles
and looks up
towards the Downs.

A blue tractor
is climbing upward.

I hope he's careful,
she says,
a tractor driver
was killed
a few months ago
doing that;
he was crushed
beneath the machine.

I look at the tractor.

He seems competent.

So did the one killed;
my father had
to comfort the widow
and perform
the funeral service.

I take her in
side ways on:
her complexion is pale,
her lips
a washed out pink.

Maybe I can show you
his grave
in the churchyard.

Ok,
I say.

Churchyard viewing
is not
my favourite pastime,
but if I’m with her
I don't mind
watching paint dry.

I want to kiss her again,
but feel unsure.

Sorry about
the presumptuous kiss.

She looks at me.

Imagine I'm a peach,
she says.

I kiss, not nibble;
we kiss
and she nibbles
my lip with her lips.

I feel electricity
tingle my finger tips.

I would wish
you here,

here as you were;
the eyes large

and deep
as oceans.

I would
have you

to hold,
back from

the dead,
not some place else,

but here instead.
I would

that you would
speak again,

soft, deep
and with that

hint of joy,
my lost son,

my grown man -
boy.

I see Fay's old man
arguing with the baker
in the Square

the baker's horse
eats from a nose bag
unconcerned
about the raised voices

what's up
with your old man?
I ask her

she stands next to me
on the balcony
looking down

he thinks
the baker's a Jew
and says she doesn’t
want no Jesus killer
handling his bread

but it's the same baker
we've always had

I know but you know
my dad once he gets
an idea he follows it
through to the end

I watch
as the two men argue

the horse eats away
a crowd gathers

why take it out
on the baker
he didn't even
know Jesus?
I say

Fay looks embarrassed
and bites
her finger nails

he's like that
if he thinks anyone
had anything to do
with the Crucifixion
he's on their case

we watch
as the baker
shrugs his shoulders
and strokes
his horse's neck

Fay's old man
walks away
pointing his finger

best hide
she says
if he sees me
talking to you
and thinks I’ve
been watching him
he'll have ago
at me and you

so we move along
the balcony
and crouch low
down by the wall

we hear her old man
coming up
the concrete stairs
moaning still
his voice echoing
along the balcony

but Jesus was a Jew
I whisper
and so was his mother

she puts a finger
to my lips
and says

I know
(in a low whisper)
but Dad doesn't think
that way

I look at her
crouching there
her blue eyes
and lovely fair hair.