Benny wheels
Anne’s chair
up the path

between trees
the sun bright
overhead

other kids
on the lawn
by the home

riding swings
or the slide
move on Kid

Anne says
out the gate
on the beach

Benny grips
the handles
pushes hard

through the gate
on the path
to the beach

have the nuns
seen us yet?
Anne asks

don't think so
Benny says
Sister Luke's

not looking
she's as blind
as a bat

couldn't find
her backside
with both hands

Anne says
the tide's out
Benny says

this is it
Skinny Kid
this is life

he watches
her one leg
sticking out

from her dress
her leg stump
out of sight

push me there
Anne points
to the sand

near the edge
want to smell
the sea's scent

hear the sound
of the waves
on the shore

he pushes on
over sand
deep ridges

as he goes
looking down
at her dress

the stump shows.

No matter
how much
I open
my arms wide;
you're not inside.

I cannot hold
you again,
cannot feel
the hold of you,
no matter
what I imagine
or believe, or do.

Cannot weigh
the sadness
or explain
how I grieve.

I think on
the you,
the you
that used to be,
the younger,
older, son,
child, man,
you,
I cannot see.

On my way
to the shop
across the road
down the concrete stairs

of the flats
I saw Ingrid
sitting on a step
a floor down

from mine
what you
doing here?
I asked

I dropped
a pink of milk
on the way back
from the shop

and now
my dad'll **** me
I daren't go home
I looked at her

sitting there
old grey dress
matty hair
well you can't

sit here all day
your mum
will wonder
where you are

she looked at me
wide eyed
I know
but I can't

go home
until he's gone
to work or I’m for it
how long ago

did you drop it?
15 minutes or so
down by the *****
I thought

of the broken glass
and messy milk
wait here
I’ll talk

with my mum
so I went back
upstairs to our flat
and spoke to Mum

and she gave me
an extra bit of money
to get another
bottle of milk

so I went down
the stairs
and said
come on

let's get
another bottle
how?
she asked

my mum
gave me
some money
to get another

but be careful
this time
she smiled
her goofy smile

and we went down
the stairs and out
through the Square
and down the *****

to the shop
passed
the broken bottle
and spilt milk

and the morning sun
was coming over
the factory
beside the fresh fish shop

and we got
my mother's shopping
and another pint
and never spilt a drop.

Your worth
not in flowers

or tombstone's depth
or height,

but in the heaviness
of the heart,

the haunting look
from old photos.

I dreamed of you,
not as last,

but younger,
child-like,

wanting to caress.
I search for you

among the tall grass
and bright flowers.

I recall
your last words,

final hours.

He swam
in the sea
of her moistness-
warm waves,

tide on tide,
her fingers,
shark like,
set about

his flesh as
of fish; -
who else
could swim

as such?
he recalled
the *******
hot finger tips

of her love,
the way
they dived
into waves

of oncoming
passions;
you-
you,

my young love,
he said,
I the youth,
diving, deep,

breath held,
eyes closed.
Where are you now,
my long ago love?

He asked,
in what waters
do you now dive?  
Or are you

in Davy Jones' Locker?
Or are you still alive?

From cloister
he walks,
the black robed
monk,

pausing in the aisle
of the abbey church
to genuflect;
stopping,

he gazes at us,
then into
the bell tower
to ring the bells

for Compline.
I watch
as the red altar light
flickers

into semi dark
of the abbey;
remembering she
who kissed

in another dark
with warm
kissing lips.
The bells break

the silence
of the evening chill;
one by one
the monks enter

at their own pace,
hooded
in black robes,
each to their own place.

He kisses
her hip;
lips on skin
and feels bone.

She moves
in intimacy,
hones in
on his lips
in the moist moment.

She curves
about him
like a serpent,
her legs
about his waist,
bringing him in
to harbour
like a pilot
brings in
a large ship
to home port.

Hip to lips,
lips to skin;
sense now
the hot dips.

Brother Andrew
spreads the page
of the book bound

with his hug palm.
I take in
the chill

in the large room;
he towering,
smiles

his Manchurian smile.
It were way
room were laid

in cell
that brought me in,
this monastery,

he says.
The page edges
were of blue and red.

They would
have shared that-

the hands
embracing his-

she looked away,
her eyes full

as water basins.
He let his lips

brush against
her *****,

soft as peaches.
I closed the book,

let the air
pushed from pages,

kiss my brow.
He loved her

to a sea depth;
she loved him,

too,
some how.

The monk runs
his thin finger
down the spine
of the black book.

Dom Peter turns
the large key
in the old lock.

She would
have let me-
had I wished to-
run a finger
down her spine.

The sanctuary lamp
flickers in the church;
a lone light
in the ebony darkness.

Miss A looks across
the class at me.

Benedict, what's
the difference
between may and can?

I look at her
standing there
built like a brick
out house;
arms folded,
hair brushed back.

May and can?

Yes, if you said to me
can I go out to play?
I would say, yes,
you can, but no
you may not.

I look at the boy's head
in front; his hair is short,
the colour jet black.

Understand,
Benedict?
she says.

No, not really,
I say.

A titter
of small laughter.

She looks at the titterers
and stares them to silence.

Anyone know?
She asks.

Enid raises a hand.

Yes, Enid?
Miss A says.

When I say, can,
I’m asking of possibility;
when I ask, may,
I’m asking permission,
Enid says.

Miss A looks at her;
her eyes searching
the girl's features.

Where did
you read that?

Enid looks at me;
Benedict told me.

Miss A frowns,
then looks at me.

Did you?

I forgot about it.

The teacher raises
an eyebrow,
then says,
that is roughly
what it means,
the difference between
possibility and permissibility.

The room is silent;
Enid lowers her hand;
Miss A writes it
on the blackboard
in chalk.

I smile at Enid
unable to talk.

She sits next to him
on a side seat
on the bus;
they're going to
Waterloo Rail Station
to watch the steam trains.

She holds in the palm
of her small hand
the 3d piece
her mother
had given her;
it's sweaty;
the 12 sides make
a slight impression
on her skin.

She moves
side to side
as the bus
turns corners;
Benny's arm
touches hers
as they move.

Why you have to go
with him
to see the trains,
God only knows,
her mother had said,
but at least
he's a decent sort,
going by his mother.

She likes Benny's mum;
she smiles at her,
and is soft spoken,
unlike her own mum,
who bellows
and spits words
and slaps her.

She looks out
the window,
then looks sideways
at Benny.

He's looking forward,
his hazel eyes
taking in the man opposite,
his quiff of light brown hair
bouncing with the bus's motion.

He's got the money
his mum has given him
in his jean's pocket,
along with a small penknife,
old conker and string,
handkerchief washed grey.

Beside him sits Lydia
the girl from downstairs
in the flats.

She's skinny
and her lank hair
seems out of place
with her bright eyes.

He suggested going
to the station to see
the steam trains;
he loves the smells
and sights and sounds
of the trains.

He had a job
persuading her mother
to let her go,
but eventually
she agreed,
(must have been
his smile).

The man opposite
stares at Lydia;
his ******* eyes
drinking her in.

Benny stares back at him,
gives the man his best
Bogart stare,
even holding his head
at an angle.

The man's green tie
is stained;
the shirt is too small
and seems to want
to escape from his body.

The man stares at him,
his eyes moving to him
like two black slugs.

Benny touches Lydia's
small hand and says:
soon be there.

The man ends
his black eyed stare,
and looks away.

Well done, Bogey,
Benny says
inside his head,
and senses Lydia's hand
grip her 3d piece coin;
her bright eyes showing
small portraits of him
in each one,
absorbing him
like dark cloth
does the sun.

And he said
I’m going to
bust your nose
and I said

you and whose army?
And he said
I don't need no army
with you Benny Coles

I could take you
with one arm
tied behind my back
take your glasses off

I said
then you'll see
just the one me
and did he?

Janice asks
no he threw a punch
but he missed
and I caught him

a left to his right ear
and he folded up
like an old tent
she laughs

shouldn't laugh really
Gran said fighting is brutal
and so lower class
but you make it

sound funny
his glasses fell off
and he couldn't see
to find them

so I picked them up
for him
and he put them on
and the wire

behind the ear
was bent
so I straightened it
for him

and he threw a punch
to my head
but caught
my shoulder instead

and so I poked him one
on the chin
and that packed him in
and he walked off

calling me names
but fighting is
a rough thing
she says

I know
I say
I prefer stamp-collecting
or going to the cinema

and seeing cowboy films
but sometimes
a kid's got to do
what a kid's got to do

and she seems impressed
and we walk along
the road from school
to meet her Gran

by the subway
don't tell my Gran
she says
sure I won't
I say no way.

There's a rat on the balcony.
I see it scamper
along by the wall,
its tail following behind.

Helen screams
and rushes behind me.

It runs out of sight
down the concrete stairs
of the flat.

I hate them,
she says,
looking over
my 7 year old shoulder.

It's gone now.
She sighs.

Why are there rats
in the flats?

Forget them;
lets go
to the Penny Shop,
I say showing her
a 6d piece.

Will the rat
have gone now?
she asks.

Yes,
long gone.

We walk along
the balcony
and down the stairs
looking out for the rat,
but there's no sign.  

Where'd it go?

Hidden down the shute,
I expect.

We walk through
the Square,
walk past the bike sheds,
the milkman
and his horse-drawn cart.

My dad killed a rat
with his shoe
when it got in
our backyard,
Helen says,
horrible,
blood and guts
everywhere,
and he had
to wash his shoes clean
under the cold water tap
in the yard.  

He must
have been quick.

He cornered it
and bang bang
with his big
black shoe.

We come out
of the Square
and cross into Harper Road
and go to the Penny Shop.

I like how she stands there
with her big eyed look
through the thick lens
glasses
and brown
plaited hair.

And we used to go there
and it would be
evening time
and the train seemed

so slow
and the darkness
wrapped itself
about us

and the coast was wild
when we arrived
the sea rough
a wind tearing

into us
yet we stood gazing
out at the dark sea
and snuggled

into each other
against the wind
and you said
this is our place

this is where
we will always
remember
and your words

were carried away
by the wind's storm
and I recall
your hand in mine

your thumb rubbing
against the back
of my hand's skin
a thousand years

it seems
like the material
of dry
and wet dreams.

Saw you
go in
those *** shops
in Stockholm,
she says.

We sit outside
a café in Oslo
drinking coffee
and eating
creams cakes.

Just looking
at the books.

Why?
What so good
about the *******
in the books
and not us
other girls?

I sip the coffee
and light up
a cigarette
from a pack;
she takes one, too,
and looks at me.

It's a matter of posing.

Posing?

Yes, how they pose.

She frowns,
sips her coffee.

We can pose
like they do;
it's more than that.

I study her features,
the eyes focusing,
the lips part open,
her hair curly and tight.

It's the way
they look at you
from the photographs.

How do they look?

Haven't you seen
those kinds of books
or mags?

Why would I?

Curiosity?

Never looked.

I inhale cigarette smoke.

I saw my first girly mag
when I was at high school,
when a friend brought
one to school,
and I thought:
what the heck's that?

Don't you find
it belittles women?

Some I saw weren't
belittled any place.

I mean
as a ****** gender,
Dalya says,
grabbing me
with her eyes.

No, it's just dames
posing in the ****
or in skimpy gear
showing what God
gave them,
I say.

It cheapens women;
makes them objects
for men to pore over
with their eyes
and see as just that:
objects,
she says.

I drain my coffee
and put the cup down.

Another coffee?

No, I’ve not done
with this one.

I raise a hand
and a waitress comes
and I order
another coffee;
the waitress walks off,
her black dressed ***,
swaying.

What was it
you were saying?

She doesn't know
if he like her or not;
he doesn't give
the impression

that he does,
but she can't be sure,
not liked as such,
but liked as a woman,

liked for her beauty,
her ******, slim body.
When she goes to work
and he's there,

she becomes
all self conscious,
as if he were
looking at her,

taking in how
she has dressed,
how she walks,
carries herself,

how she speaks.
She puts on
her uniform
in the female

locker room;
stands there
gazing at herself
in the mirror

above the sink.
Pulls her lips tight,
purses them.
Her eyes look tired;

little sleep;
thinking of him;
thinking how much
he might like her.

She goes out
along the corridor
and he's there at the end
talking to another,

she freezes,
stands still,
looks back and forward,
then moves on

passing him
and the other,
sensing his eyes following,
his mind turning her over,

maybe sensing things
about her;
then she looks back
and he's gone.

She panics,
wonders if she ought
to have spoken,
ought to have made

eye contact,
maybe looked
into his eyes
and seen all

the fabric
of a dream.

The Chopin piece played
still pays in my head
as I kiss her shoulder,
soft, hard, my lips
brushing, moving in,
my tongue tasting,
snake like.

She enfolds me
with her arms,
her hands on my back,
holding me there,
capturing me lest
I seek escape(as if),
her hands, fingers
run upon my skin.

Far off, voices,
laughter, coming back
from the hotel restaurant,
late hours;
we engaged
in love making,
uncaring, dismissing.

Lips kiss her neck,
touch, brush, wet,
sensual; I move my hand
along her thigh;
watch her eyes open wide,
her mouth forming
a small O and moving
into harbour the small O
becomes more oval
as if to swallow whole.

I loved the Chopin
Abela whispers
such a soft touch.

Mmm,
I say,
so good, so much.

She crosses her legs,
one leg over the other,
dividing the dressing gown,
her foot dangling,
the pink slipper,
half hanging there.

The ward light
has no shade,
the light is naked
and bare and bright.

She gazes
at her reflection
in the window pane;
outside the darkness
of late evening.

I sit beside her;
we are both
in the frame
of the window pane.

I heard of your
latest drama,
she says,
had the nurses
rushing around
like headless hens.  

You know
how it gets you.

There's always
a different door,
the quack told me.

What's he know,
except what he's ******
from books?

These
are my dumb medals.

She shows me
her scars;
they are like bracelets
around her wrists
and along her arm.

Where'd you get
the cord?
she asks.

Framer had one
on his dressing gown;
they never
checked him.

Heads will roll.

Almost did it,
I say,
looking at the guy
looking at me.

So I thought
when I sliced
into my flesh
last time;
matter of time
I told the quack;
he wasn’t impressed.

I take her hand
and run a finger
along the scars.

Smooth, soft,
pinkie-white,
whiter than the rest.

She uncrosses her legs,
then crosses them again,
different leg over,
foot dangling,
slipper stained by blood
hanging half off.

Who are they?
Yiska asks
pointing to
the two reflected images
gazing back at us,
male and female.

Poor sods,
like Dante's souls
in the Second Circle,
I say.

She turns her head;
the female image
before us
turns away.

We made out on the beach;
in sand dunes,
not far from
the Mediterranean's reach.

After we lay
looking up
at the moon
and stars,
listening to
the sea's rush
on the sand
and a guitar
and singing
from the camp base party.

Wasn't it Pascal
who said infinite spaces
frightened him?
Miriam said.

Not fear
as we mean fear,
more an awe
at the infinity
of it all;
the stars and such,
I said.

Is kind of awesome;
makes you feel
kind of insignificant
in comparison.

That's what Pascal felt,
I think.

She put her hands
behind her head;
looked around her.

I wonder
if there is
a God?

Wonder is all
we can do;
either we think
He's there
or we don't;
no proof
either way.

She turned
and stared at me;
her hands still
cupping her head.

You won't tell anyone
what we did?
she said.

Of course not,
just us and ours.

She smiled;
unleashed her hands
and put a hand
on my shoulder.

It wasn't planned;
kind of spontaneous.

Yes, like buds
opening in Spring;
like day follows night.

She smiled again.

First time
I’ve had ***
on the sand.

I ran a hand
over her ****,
skimpy shorts,
warmth there.

A sound of music
from base camp
hung in the air.

You make a good bed,
Sophia said.

I smoothed the top sheet
of Mr H's bed
with a motion
of my hand,
trying hard not
to look at her
by the sink
in the corner.

It's a firm bed,
isn't it?

It's metal framed
for endurance,
I said,
lifting my head,
seeing her standing there
with Vim powder
in her hand
and cloth in the other.

We have ****?

I pulled up the blankets
and duvet,
pretending I hadn't heard.

No one around,
she said,
be safe.

Until Mr H
or some other old boy
comes along
and keels over
clutching their heart,
I replied.

She smiled, turned
and began powdering
the sink and scrubbing
with the cloth.

I looked out the window
at the grounds below;
the grass
was a bright green,
the few trees
in full leaf.

I turned
and she was
standing there
with one foot
on the bed
and her skirt hem
lifted, showing
a fair glimpse of leg.

You sure
we not have ****?

Not here, not now,
I said,
taking the glimpse
of leg inside my head.  

She pouted her lip
and shook her long
blonde hair.

Shame,
it could be good.

I went out the room,
closing the door,
thinking of my next task,
giving Sidney
his morning bath,
and as I walked on,
I heard her
mocking laugh.

Miss T said
you appeared to her
a number of times
smiling, and says
the impression is
that you're ok.

I am pleased by that,
thinking you're all right now,
safe and sound
in that other sphere;
I am relieved
you are ok,
but sad
that you're not here.

But the journey's done,
and you are there
happy and at peace,
and I am here
moved, but
still allow
the secret tear.

Nima lays on the green grass
in St James's Park
her head resting
on her hands,
her eyes following
puffy white clouds.

I lay beside her
relaxing after the jaunt
across the West End
before meeting her
by Trafalgar Square.

The Coltrane LP
by my side.

What's beyond
the horizon?
She asks.

Black space,
dead stars
and maybe planets.  

But beyond them,
what's there?

God knows
and He isn't
letting on,
I say.

I'm lucky
to be here today;
the doctor said
he wasn’t happy
with me.

Why's that?
what have you
been up to?

She looks at me;
her eyes dull,
her hair untidy.

The drug issue
is not going so well.

I see her arms
are punctured anew.

I said I was seeing
my mother and she'd
bring me back,
but she won't of course,
Nima says,
looking away.

I can see you back
to the hospital.

No, I'll tell him
she dropped me off
and had to go off
some place else.

But that’s not true is it;
how do you expect
to get better
if you don't go along
with the doctor's regime?

Truth or untruth,
either side
of the same coin;  
I’ll kick the habit
when I'm good
and ready.

I doubt it;
you will never
want to,
until too late.

Too late, too soon;
what's time
in this sad cocoon?
I want a fix
and I want a ****.

She sits up
and shakes her head,
brushing grass
hanging loose.

Coffee will have to do,
I say,
and we get up
and walk slowly
away.

We sit on a river bank
our bikes resting
against a tree;
Milka throwing
small pieces of branches
into the river's flow.

Some one said
you can't walk
in the same river twice,
she says,
don't know
who said it,
but some one said it.

Heraclitus,
some Greek guy said it,
I say.

She looks at me,
her eyes cow-like,
deep and sad.
What's he mean?

It's not the same water,
it moves on like our lives;
we can't stand still
no matter how much
we wish we could.

Where'd you read that?

I study her sitting there;
her hair brushed back,
tied by a ribbon;
her grey coat,
the brown and pink dress
coming to the knees,
black stockings.

Reader's Digest,
I guess.

I hate cold water;
had to wash in it
this morning
because the fire'd
gone out,
she says,
looking at
the river again.

I know,
I heard you moaning
at your mother.

She shrugs her shoulders,
continues throwing
branches in the river.

She moans at me
often enough.

But she's the parent,
that's what they do.

What would you do
if I stripped off now
and walked through
the river?
She says, smiling.

What would your mother say
if you did?

She'd not know.

If she did?

God knows;
slap me one, I guess,
but what would you do?
She asks me.

Nothing;
just watch the scene.

You wouldn't join me?

And get wet feet?
no, not me.

Spoilsport;
too cold anyway.

I open my cigarette packet
and take two out;
one for her
and one for me.

We light up
and sit musing,
the river flowing on,
slow,
moving over
small rocks and stones,
down a slight hill,
we sitting
watching its flow.

Yehudit places a tin
on the shelf,
then looks at me.

Don't finish until late.

What about after?

Need to get a bus home;
I get tired.

I watch her
as she moves to get
another tin
to fill the shelf.

When's your day off?

Sunday and half-day
Thursday,
she says,
looking over
at the store manger
who is talking
to a customer.

I work most Sundays,
I say,
can see you
Thursday afternoon,
I guess.

She carries a box out back,
and I wait by the shelves,
pretending to be
interested in soups.

She returns
with another full box;
she puts it on the floor
and opens it up.

I finish at 1pm;
meet me by the café,
we can talk there
and maybe arrange
to meet another time,
she says.

Ok, I’ll be there.

She puts tins on shelves,
eyeing the manager
who walks on through.

He doesn't like us girls
to chat up
during work time.

Maybe the *******
hasn't got girl
in his life,
I say.

He's got a wife
and daughter.

He's back
and gives her a stare.

I best go,
I say,
see you Thursday.

She nods
and I go,
giving the manager
my John Wayne stare,
but he just looks away
and doesn't care.

They showered together,
lathered each the other,
soaped up
and then

turned on the tap,
washed off and up;
he moving along
her spine his finger,

moving on around
to her *******,
O boy, what a laugh,
better than a bath;

she washing along
his chest hairy,
soaked, then down
to his orchestra stalls

and Moby ****
washed and soothed,
and he kissing
in his blindness

with water,
her cheek, lips,
forehead;
she licking under

his chin, his jaw,
tongued, kissing
his upper lip
(blinded by

water, too),
then he began to sing,
baritone,

some Italian
love song,
not a note wrong,
his hand moving
along her ****
in circular motion,
she filling up with water
and deep emotion.

His tongue
moves
wet and slow
as a snail

from the back
of her bent knee,
up her thigh,
to the place

she'd ***
if he got there
too soon.
He wants to

awake her soul;
wants to
open her up
like budding flower

in spring
and make her
being sing.
She wants to say:

more, more, more,
but all she can do
is open her mouth
and release

a groan or moan,
an utter
of in-distinctive words
fluttering out

from between
hot lips
like free,
random birds.

I see you
Yochana
thin as wire

shiny hair
narrow nose
looking back

towards me
eyes gazing
while Miss G

at the front
of the class
talks music

Beethoven
and deafness
how he had

his piano
cut down low
to feel sound

vibrations
on his skin
how you look

towards me
Yochana
vibrates on

my skin too
I mouth words
you're ****

towards you
your forehead
creases up

eyebrows rise
thinking out
what I've mouthed

I love it
how you are
you look back

at Miss G
and her talk
on music

Beethoven
and not me.

I want to show you the pond
John says
ducks and swans
are there
and now and then
herons come

Elaine wonders
where the pond is
is it far?
she asks

no not far
just down through
the wood
here
down these rides
mind the brambles
he walks ahead of her

she follows

can you hear that?
he says

what is it?

blackbird
you can tell
by the song

she looks at him
ahead of her
she wishes
he would stay with her
she's not been
in these woods before

how big is it?
she asks

not that big
but big enough
you'll see
he says
back to her
walking on
that's a song thrush
he says
love the song thrush

she treads carefully
along the ride
she doesn't want
to catch her legs
on brambles

they reach a fence
and he climbs over
and waits for her

careful how you get over
he says
don't want to get
a splinter
in your leg

she climbs carefully
trying to keep
her skirt
tight to her legs
doesn't want him
to see up her skirt
but he looks away
out at the field

see pheasants
out there sometimes
he says

she climbs down
the other side
brushes her skirt down
and stands next to him

where's the pond?

over there
he says pointing
over the way
not far now

he walks on
and she follows him
he is just ahead of her
then he climbs over
another fence

it's here

she comes to the fence
and looks over

you'll have to climb over
to see it properly
he says

she climbs the fence
carefully

but he has gone down
towards the pond
staring at the water's skin

she walks down
beside him
standing there
a gentle smell
of flowers
hanging in the air.

I've been waiting
all morning
all through boring
brain-muddling lessons
to see you
Yiska says

as I go onto
the school sports field
during lunch recess

and I was hoping
against hope
that it wouldn't rain
and keep us indoors

well I’m here now
I say
let's go walk together
up field

so we walk pass
boys kicking ball
and girls skip-roping
or sitting in groups
talking and laughing

and she says
if my mother moans
one more time
about my room
being untidy
I’m going to spit blood
after all
it's my room
my mess
you’ve been in there
that time
do you think
it's so messy?

I could live with it
I guess

well there you go
that's it
living with it
but no
my mother
has to have a go
your room's so untidy
what will
the neighbours say?
she says
the neighbours
aren't going to see
my **** room
I tell her

we reach the upper fence
of the field
and stop
and turn around
and look at the kids
on the field
and the school
in the background

how's your room?
she asks

it's ok
I share with my brother
we keep it tidyish

she looks at me
wish you could come
to my room again

maybe I will
when you invite me
one lunch time
I say

I will ask my mother
when she's in
her upper mood

she looks at the field
and kids

no one's looking

and she kisses me
and I sense a slit
in the universe
and a sliver of light
open up
inside my head
and stirs me
else place
as no doubt
she can see
on my young face.

Bright morning
Yehudit says
as we meet
by the front gate
shame about school
I’d rather we were going
some place
more interesting
somewhere we could be
alone together

we walk down
the side of the road
towards the bus stop

we were
alone together Saturday
well a good part of it

well yes
but that was someone
else's wedding
and we were
in the choir
until afterwards

but the bubbly was good
and those other plates
of posh grub

we wait
by the bus stop
with others

I seem to recall
Roger had his fill
of those and bubbly
she says

I’d have preferred a beer
but the guy
handing them out
said I was too young

you are
you’re only
14 years old Benny

the bridegroom
looked terrified

the bride looked beautiful

she wasn't a bad dish

dish?
dish?
what a thing
to call a bride

the bus was coming
she stops talking
soon we'll sit apart
on the bus
(she doesn't want others
to yak if they see us
together on the bus)

the bus stops
we get on

she sits at the front
with her sister
and I sit towards
the back with Trevor

he talks of football
I watch Yehudit
at the front of the bus
and she looks
back at me

I don't know what
she's thinking
but I know
where I’d
rather be.

Of course
it will happen
one day
Lizbeth says
it will happen

I lay the borrowed bike
against the hedge
and so does she
hers is red and silvery

we walk up
the narrow lane
to the hollow tree
and we climb in
and it's like a small house
inside but small
and snug

I like it here
she says
last time we came
I thought we'd do it here
but we didn't
and I so much
wanted to
even though
it's not very
comfortable or big

what's the rush?
I ask

she sits on a small ledge
hands in her lap

never know
how long
you've got
might not make 16
might be pushing up
daisies by then
she says

I look out
of the hole
in the hollow tree
at the surrounding
woods and trees
and hedges
bird song and such

come sit down
next to me
she says
I won't bite
well not
straight away

in this book
I’ve got
this woman
is kissing
this man's
what’s-it

I look at her
she's drawing her
dress up
from her knees

why do you
read that book?

why not?

she taps
the small space
beside her
sit for a while
I promise not
to do anything to you

I sit beside her
the space is cramped
and there is a smell
of sap or rotten wood
plus the perfume
she's drowned
herself in

you smell
of farms and cows
she says

I was working there
for a while earlier

smells like it
she says smiling
but I don't mind
as long as you're here
next to me
elbow to elbow
thigh to thigh

and as I turn
my head away
a small bird
flies past
the hole
catching my eye.

Isn't it a lovely day
and O look at this snow
and how it covers
everything like

a huge great cloth
and the birds still come
to the bushes for food
and I love it

Jane says
and I meet her
by the back gate
of the cottage

and I look at her
standing there
in a woollen hat
and scarf and gloves

and a grey overcoat
and boots
and she's happy
and her eyes sparkle

as if candles
had been lit there
it's a bit cold
I say

opening the gate
and watch as the snow
that was sitting on top
falls to the ground

O you townie boys
this is how it is
in winter
here in the countryside

and where's your
big coat?
I have a jacket on
and an old scarf

and gloves
my mother knitted
and my jeans
and two jumpers

I haven't got one yet
I close the gate
behind me
so that next doors mutt

doesn't get out
onto the country lane
don't you have
winter in London?

sure we do
but it seems different
like an invasion
not a bit natural

as it seems here
I say
we walk down the lane
beside the cottage

the high hedges
are covered in snow
the ground is inches deep
in whiteness

I feel the coldness
bite at my toes
I look at her
as we go down

the winding lane
and she's so happy
so alive
and I want to hold her

and seep some
of that warmth
into me
but I don't

I just look out
at the fields beyond
like a spread
of white sea.

Mrs B said
can I take you
out to dinner
one lunch time

for being
such a kind
young man?
I'll bring Lillian along

not because
I don't trust you Benny
because I do
but just in case

my husband hears
about me taking
you out for dinner
and thinks there's

something going on
and I wouldn't
want that
and I know

a nice restaurant
where we can
have a really
decent meal

and O best dress
in reasonable clothes
because the place
I am going to take you

is quite upmarket
no jeans or tee shirts
I let her talk on
while I studied her

after all
she was old enough
to be my mother
and unlike Lillian

who was of
a similar age
and was a quite dish
Mrs B

never struck me
as being
****** at all
but it was good

to have a meal
and see Lillian eat
and see her
delicate hands

and her pale complexion
and O those eyes
I could so easy
fall into them

and **** her in
O boy
how is that
for sin.

I am sitting
on the brick
and concrete
bomb shelter
with Fay;
she is looking
at the coal wharf,
I am sorting
cigarette cards
to swap at school.

Do you know
where Jesus was born?
She asks.

In a stable wasn't it;
laid him in a manger,
I think it says.

She nods.

But in St Matthew
it says the Magi
came to the house.

Who were Magi?

The three Wise Men,
although it doesn't
actually say
how many there were,
it just says they.

I put the cigarette cards
in my jacket pocket
and gaze at her.

What's it matter?
People will believe
what they want to believe.

But the nuns said
it's the truth,
Fay says.  

I like her
pale complexion,
her blue eyes
and her fair hair,
well groomed
by her mother.

When I asked Daddy
he said not
to question the nuns,
but to accept
what they said.

I look at her light
blue flowery dress,
the white ankle socks,
the black shoes.

What do you think?
she asks.

Perhaps he was born
in a stable,
but they moved him
into a house
before the Wise Guys
got there,
I say, not caring
a hoot,
but wanting
to ease her worry.

Do you think so?

Sure,
makes sense to me,
I say, seeing
a coal wagon
leave the coal wharf
drawn by a large horse.

But in pictures
in my Bible
it shows them
entering a stable
with shepherds.

I watch the coal wagon
go along
Rockingham Street
and out of sight
under the railway bridge.

What's the truth?
She asks,
looking at her hands
in her lap.

I don't know,
Sweetie, I reply,
and I couldn't
give a crap.

Anne rubs
her leg stump
sometimes it's

very hot
and itches
other times

it throbs hard
with the pain
that's how it

is again
so she rubs
the leg stump

and looks at
other kids
on the lawn

of the home
for the sick
some playing

on the swings
or the slide
some sitting

at tables
playing games
on game boards

but she's stuck
sitting there
in a chair

with one leg
and one stump
itching bare

then a nun
who's nursing
says to her

cover up
your leg stump
and don't rub

or you will
make it sore
but Anne

being she
says up yours
lifts her skirt

and rubs her
stump some more.

Ingrid seldom laughed;
it made her
protruding teeth
seem more so
than they were.

She spread her lips
tightly to smile
so that only
small gaps
at the sides
became visible.

A Knock-Knock joke,
I said.

She nodded,
waited.

Knock-Knock.

She looked at me
expectantly.

You have to say:
who's there?
I said.

O, I didn't know,
she said.

Knock-Knock.

Who's there?

Me.

She looked
at her scuffed shoes.

You need to say:
Who's me?

She looked up at me
and said,
O, right.

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

Me.

Who's me?

I don’t know
who you are,
but I'm Benny,
I said.

I watched as her lips
tried to stay stiff
and unmoving,
but her lips
disobeyed her,
and spread open
into a wide O,
and her slightly
protruding teeth
came into view.

I smiled mildly:
what else could
a nine year old boy
do?

Ann has long
brown hair
and a wide spam
of forehead
and deep eyes.

She's Jimi's sister;
he's my best friend,
she has a temper
like a wild horse
and I avoid her
when she's moody.

She opens the door
to her parent's flat.

Yes?

Is Jimi home?

He's out,
gone with Dad
for a while.

When will he
be back?
I ask.

When he arrives.

I look pass her shoulder;
look for her mother.

Can I come in?
Or do you
want to come out
and go to
the bomb site
or park?

What for?
She looks at me;
hands on her hips.

Something to do,
something to pass
the time.

She looks at my clothes
and says:
do you have only
the one pair of jeans?

No, but I like
theses best.

What’s to do
on the bomb site?

Light a fire;
pick small stones
for my catapult;
play cowboys
and bad guys?

Have you got
a spare gun?
I'm not just being
a silly saloon girl;
I want a gun
to blast
the baddies away.

I pull out one
of my 6-shooters
from my S belt;
here have this one;
I hand her a gun.

She holds it
in her hands
and spins it
round her
plumpish finger.

Ok, but I’m
Annie Oakley.

Sure, you be her,
and I’ll be
Wyatt Earp.

So I wait until
she's got her
shoes on
and her cardigan
with flowers on.

We go through
the Square
and down the *****.

She rides her
brown horse
(so she says)
I ride my black horse
across Rockingham Street,
gun at the ready
for the baddies
we might meet.

The walk
from Peckham Rye
train station
to my aunt's
is quite a trek,
but Lydia and I
set off along
Rye lane.

Never been here before,
Lydia says.

I been here tons of times;
I was born up the road.

What this road?

No, at the hospital
nearby.

She has a thinness
about her,
her lank hair is caught
by the sunshine.

We pass by shops
and cross side streets;
pass people shopping.

Dad hates shopping,
Lydia says,
he says it's a ****
of a game,
worse than kissing
his boss's backside.

She laughs;
a link of light
brightens up
her eyes;
there's a hint
of beauty
about her.

Your mum
wasn't too keen
on you going with me,
I say.

Anything that hints
of spending money
and she's up in arms;
she wouldn't care
if I went
with the milkman
as long as he paid.

We walk on
and down a street
that leads
to my aunt's place;
the shops have gone now,
just houses and flats.

I heard your old man
singing in the Square
the other night,
I say,
drunk as a lord.

I know, I heard him, too,
Mum wasn't none
too pleased;
she dragged him in
and gave him her tongue;
I couldn't marry
a man like that;
does your father drink?

No, only the odd pint
or port at special times.

We pass a dog peeing
against a wall;
it wags its tail
as it runs off
down the road
leaving a pyramid shape
of wetness behind.

My brother Hem does that,
Lydia says,
***** ***.

There is an aspect
of light
when she's angry,
like a birth
of a new world.

Is your dad Irish?
he seemed to be singing
an Irish song
the other night?

No, he always sounds Irish
when he's drunk,
like he sounds Welsh
when he's sober.

She holds my hand
as we cross a busy road;
it's thin and bony;
I feel it
with my thumb
as we walk along,
her bony knuckles;
I squeeze it gently
and she softly
chuckles.

Enid holds
the wee in
focusing

nothing else
not Miss A
in the class

history
being taught
about kings

or their queens
matters now
just the need

right now to
urinate
her eyes strain

to focus
on the floor
on a foot

someone's shoe
a chair leg
on Miss A

standing there
by the board
but Enid

wants to go
to the door
but too late

small wet patch
on the floor.

Death is a mere inch
or so away;
he stares in at us

day after day,
hour by hour,
moment by moment.

His cold fingers touch,
icily run down the spine;
shivers remember that?

Well Death
was just trying you out,
giving you the feel.

Death will leave you be
for a year or a day
or maybe

a whole decade
or more;
but it's just

a waiting game,
so get living,
take that vacation,

have that read
or go play pool
or have ***

or eat your fill
until you're ill,
but in the end,

my friend,
Death is there,
rubbing his

bony hands;
but Death’s only

a transporter
to another place,
deeper,

calmer,
warmer,
but Death

won't tell you such,
he'll just pretend
it's the end.

Janice( wearing a lime
flowered dress
and white socks)

met me by the iron bridge
to go to chapel
I didn't often

go to chapel
sometimes
I went to the other church

or the tabernacle
or not at all
but she wanted to go

so I said
I’d go along
and sing a few hymns

and see the old dame
plonking on the piano
out of tune

and some old guy
singing
like a bullfrog

out of water
Gran said
I’m not to get

my new dress *****
and not to go
on the bomb sites

or play in the park
or I’m for it
just chapel

and home again
she sounded disappointed
I thought of going

to the bomb site
off Meadow Row
to get small stones

for my catapult
but I didn’t want
to get her

into trouble
ok let's get
to chapel

and have a sing-along
I like your blazer
is it new?

yes my Mum
bought it for me
for Sundays

and special occasions
I also have these
new grey flannel trousers

and white shirt
and tie
we walked on

by the public house
and along
to the small chapel

she was thinking
of her new lime
flowered dress

and what the chapel goers
might think and say
I was thinking

of how many cans
I could hit
with my new catapult

tucked inside
my blazer pocket
touching it lightly

with my fingers
as we walked along
hearing

as we entered
the chapel
a dreary song.

Beyond the pram sheds
Chana rode her bike.

I was with Helen
watching from the balcony
of the flats.

Rides well,
doesn't she?
Helen said.

I watched
as Chana rode
around and around
the pram sheds.

Wish I had a bike,
but my parents
can't afford one,
I said.

Mine neither;
even the doll's pram I’ve got
is from a jumble sale.

Chana rode down the *****
and out of sight.

What about Battered Betty?
where did that doll come from?

My grandmother
gave it to me;
I think it was hers.

Where do you
want to go?
I asked her.

What about the park
and ride on the swings?

Sure, fine.

So we walked
down the stairs
and out through
the Square;
the morning
sunshine warming;
other kids playing
here and there;
the baker's
horse and cart
parked by the wall
of the other flats.

The park was busy;
the swings
were all occupied;
the slide and see-saw
were also engaged.

We waited,
sitting in a seat nearby,
she talking of wanting
a new doll's pram
she'd seen in a shop
and I listening,
taking in
her two plaited bunches
of brown hair;
her thick lens glasses
and us
being there.

If my old man
said to me
on Sundays

do you want
to go to church
with your uncle

or go up
the West End
with me?

I'd usually say
up West
there I liked it best

the bright lights
the arcades
the pin-ball machines

the chance of popping
into the a feature film
or see cartoons

or have a Cola
and ice cream
and see all those

odd people
on the streets
some singing

some sitting there
giving it
the big stare

but sometimes I’d go
to the tabernacle
with my uncle

and sit there
and sing hymns
or sit and hear

the prayers said
and people smiling
at each other

or being kind
and opening doors
or just being

what others called
being Christian
but most times

I went up West
and had a go
on the pin-*****

or drank Cola
or watched
my old man

eye up the girls
outside the cinemas
or theatres

(******
I later thought
and later knew)

but what's
a 8 year old kid
to say or do?

And who's she?
Netanya asks.

She gave me
a lift home.

Is that all
she gave you?

I walk past her indoors;
she slams the door
behind me
and is behind me
breathing down my neck.

I work with her;
she saw me
at the back door
and asked
if I wanted
a lift home.

O you work with her, huh?

I walk into the lounge
and sit down
in my favourite chair.

Yes, nothing else;
she works upstairs;
I work all over the place.

I bet she's a good lay;
fancy her do you?

She's pregnant;
why would I fancy
a dame who's like that?

She walks the room
like a tiger.

Is it yours?

Is what mine?

The **** kid she's carry;
your kid I guess.

She stares at me;
eyes as dark as death.

Of course not;
I hardly know her.

Liar! I bet she knows
you inside out.

I light up a cigarette
and look at her.

I work at the same store;
she's upstairs
in soft furnishings,
I am security
watching them all.

I bet she's good
on soft furnishings;
I bet she bangs
on soft furnishings.

I wouldn't know
what she bangs on.

Netanya sits in a chair
opposite me.

Why did she give you
a lift home?
bet she fancies you
something rotten.

Any mail for me?

She looks at me;
her eyes soften.

No; just a magazine
for me.

What kind of magazine?

Clothes magazine.

Any good?

Sure it is;
got some good stuff
in there.

Let me see.

She gets up
and goes and fetches
the magazine
and brings it to me.

See; good stuff.

I look at the pages
she shows me.

You like that dress?

It's beautiful isn't it?

Sure is: you want it?

Can I have it?

Sure you can.

She kisses my cheek
and sits on my lap.

You're the best;
I was just kidding
about the *****
in the car;
she's not
your sort at all.

No, you're my sort.

Yes, she says smiling,
that's what I thought.

I know as soon
as I see Dalya
that she's in
a foul mood;
we're both heading
for the shower block
across the camp
walking past
tents and grass.

How'd you sleep?
I ask.

Don't ask.

I already have;
bad night?

She looks at me
moodily.

That ****** Yank girl;
if I could get away
with suffocating her
in her sleep, I would.

Bad as that, huh?

Yes, bad as that
and worse.

What happened?

She happened;
I have to share a tent
with her because
no one else will.

I'm sure
the Aussie guy would.

Well apart from him;
I am stuck with her.

We walk past
the camp café and bar;
it's full already.

What's the matter
with her?
she seems jovial enough.

She too **** jovial
and how many men
she's had
is no one's business
and I have to hear
the long line of names
and what not
as I’m trying to sleep
and it's:
and he was a serious thinker;
he had this apartment
in L.A and O boy
could he go it some...
and all that
kind of thing
and it makes me
want to put
the **** pillow
over her head
and keep it there
until she's silent.

We reach the shower block
and we wait outside.

You can always
share with me;
I’m sure the Aussie guy
won't mind;
he can go share
with Miss Yank 1974.

I want more sleep
not less,
she says,
smiling for the first time.

I can only offer.

I'll think about it
under a hot shower blast.

And she walks off
into the female door
and I walk to the male's.

I know she won't,
but the thought is there
reaching out
even if I
can't get there.

I'd keep you here
within my arms
if death hadn't stole you;
I would tell you
all the things
that I left too late
to say.

Some nights
I go through it all
scene by scene,
episode by episode,
right down
to the flimsy
wire of death
and your final breath.

Some days it seems
so unreal,
as if you
were here still,
that it was all
some weird nightmare
of gigantic proportions,
but I know it's real
and you're not
here still.

Now and then,
I feel the rise
of panic
as the reality
of your death
sinks in,
reaching right down
to my core,
throwing up
the question:
what for?

I miss your
quiet humour,
your dry wit;
that depth of character
unfolding bit by bit,
layer after layer;
your stoic way
and stance,
taking things in hand,
leaving nothing
to chance.

Now you're not here
(some other
place maybe)
the place you
once filled
is vacant
like a desert waste
or vast sea off shore,
and rings out
the question:
what for?

How fragile we are;
how near the edge we get,
yet so unaware,
even in those moments
of stillness when we
sit and stare.

The show goes on,
the circus excites;
the long days,
the fun nights;
the pushing things
to the limit;
the share of the show,
the touch of the thrill;
the end is just out there,
a feel away,
a mere just out
of reach place
staring in the face.

How fragile
we've become
from the strong
we thought we were,
from the invincible
we pretended.

Soon or later
the close
of the game
and all 's packed up;
all's finally ended.

After asking a nurse
where he was
we find Ole at the end
of the ward
sitting on the side
of a bed
attempting to eat
a sandwich.

He is puffed up,
his hands swollen,
his arms too;
his face looks puffy.

I am shocked how much
he had altered overnight.

What's happened to you?
Has anyone seen you
like this?

He shrugs his shoulders,
looking at us.

I take his free hand
and feel it with mine.

It must be water retention;
when did you urinate last?

Early this morning, I think.

You ought to have
a catheter in
to get rid
of the excess *****.

Have they suggested that?

He has a job breathing;
his words are  soft
and yet strained.

No, but I did see
a doctor this afternoon.

What did he say?

They're investigating.

He labours for breath;
puts the sandwich down
on the small bed table;
sips the orange juice.

Stay here,
I say to his sister.

I go off down the ward
and find a nurse
in a dark uniform
who looks like
she may be in charge.

Yes? She says,
looking at me
as if I’d just walked
through dog's doings.

I'm not happy with the way
my son's being care for.

Who's your son?

I tell her.

What's the problem with him?

You should be telling me that;
he's all puffed up and swollen;
he can barely hold
a glass to drink;
his breathing is bad,
could be asthma-
he’s suffered that for years;
and why hasn't he got
a catheter in
to take away
the excess *****?
he had a job passing
***** yesterday;
I assume that's what
the letter said
we brought in
yesterday evening.

I can't put a catheter in
without a doctor's say so
and he is in A&E;
at the moment
they're having a rush.

But my son needs to see
someone soon;
he can’t go on like this.

I assure you he is
being cared for,
but as soon
as the doctor returns
from A&E;
I will ask him
to see your son.

It's upsetting
to see him like that;
he's not one to complain;
but that's no reason
to let him be as he is.

I will get a doctor to see him
as soon as he returns,
she reiterates.

I am fuming;
the whole ward
seems to have
a dark circle about  it.

I've just been to the nurse
to complain
about your treatment
or lack of,
I say.

His sister looks at me
then at Ole.

I'm going to sit
in the waiting area;
I can't stand seeing you
in this state,
she says.

She walks down
the ward upset
and then out of sight.

I look at him sitting there;
I sit beside him
on the side of the bed
and put my arm around
his broad shoulders.

The abandoned sandwich
he puts back in the packet.

Want some more orange juice?

He nods.

I pour him a glassful
of orange juice
which he drinks down
in silence.

I ask him various
mundane questions
about how he slept
and the hospital food
and did he eat any.

A little; it hurts my jaw
to move it too much.

I ask him if he wants anything
else to eat or drink,
he says no.

He tries to lay down
on the bed
so I help him
the best I can
to sit back
and arrange his pillows
so that they
are behind him comfortably.

He lays there;
his breathing heavy.

I ask a few more questions
which he answers slowly.

He closes his eyes, tired.

I best go;
leave you to rest.

He opens his eyes.

I'll be up tomorrow
and bring more clothes
and stuff.

Ok.

I kiss his forehead;
touch his arm
and go back
along the ward.

The last conversation
between father and son;
death hanging
by the door.

I can say no more.

I sit in a bar
with Miss Pinkie;
her son, who is a copper,
is getting the drinks.

She looks at me
and says:
we are just friends
if he asks
(as if I was going
to tell him
I was rogering his mother)
and don't talk politics
or say you write poetry.

I will be
the perfect gentleman,
I reply.

Her son comes
with the drinks:
a whiskey for his mother,
a beer for me
and a lemonade
for himself;
he sits down
and gazes at me.

So, Benedict,
what do you do
for a living?

I'm a nurse,
I work with your mum.

He looks at Miss Pinkie,
then at me.

What do you do?
I ask,
giving him
the Mr Innocence stare.

I'm a police officer;
aiming for C.I.D.

He sits upright
in the chair,
brushing a hand
over his dark hair.

What do you think
of the IRA?

Miss Pinkie stares at me
as if I'd let wind go in public.

They're a murderous lot,
he says;
you don't
support them
do you?

No, I don't support them;
I agree with their objectives,
but not their methods
of achieving
those objectives.

He looks at Miss Pinkie
and she looks at us both
as if she didn't know
who we were.

Both their objectives
and methods
are objectionable.

He takes a sip
of his lemonade
as if the very words
were distasteful
in his mouth;
I sip my beer;
his mother gulps
her whiskey.

What do you do
when you're not
being a nurse
and involved in
“leftist” politics?

I listen to music:
Wagner, Delius and Mahler,
and that crowd.

High-Brow stuff;
I like Johnny Mathis myself.

He wears a smug expression
and looks at his mother;
she looks at her glass.

What else do you do
apart from listening to music?
he asks.

I write poems
and read books.

You're not a queer
are you?

He stares at me
suspiciously,
then looks
at his mother.

Would I be
with your mum
if I were?

Miss Pinkie looks at me;
her blue eyes
are large as a cow's.

What do you mean?
he says.

Another drink?
I say,
another lemonade?

He means,
Miss Pinkie says,
we're good friends,
and he's not
that way inclined.

He stares at me
with a hard glare,
but I don't mind.