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

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

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

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

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

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

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

who said
she likes trains?
she did
I said

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

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

to focus
we often
go see trains
I said

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

rubbed
his hairy chin
and breathed out
a beery flavour

LYDIA
he bellowed suddenly
I stepped off
the front door step

and stood
gaping at him
LYDIA
he called again

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

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

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

his voice silky
do you?
she nodded her head
yes

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

stolen his wallet
trains?
he said
steam trains

I said
yes steam trains
she said
we like watching them

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

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

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

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

ok sure
I replied
and she turned
around

to go get
her shoes inside.

All through the woodwork lesson
and through a double dose of maths,
he thinks of her, the kiss on the sports
field, the brushing of his lips on hers.

He'd almost cut his finger on a saw,
being preoccupied with thoughts of
her, her eyes through glasses, the
innocence of lilies about her, the way

she looked so surprised, he having
kissed her.  Not planned, no he didn’t
plan the kiss, he was just going to talk
with her, get to know her more and

better, when the impulse to kiss, over
came him, as if some rarely seen fish
of the sea had drawn him into depths
he'd not known. He sits on the school

bus, got on before she had, looks out
the window, shy of seeing her, now
wondering what she'd say after that
kiss, her reaction. Trevor says softly

something about the Frump, he doesn't
turn, looks at the kids waiting to get
on the bus, excited, engaged in their
conversations, laughing. He is aware,

that she may be on the bus now, he is
so self obsessed, he can hear his heart
beat, thump through his chest. Trevor
next to him, talking across the aisle,

says something about her, but he isn’t
listening, stares out. He feels as if he's
under a microscope, eyes gawking at
him, words around him. Maybe others

saw the kiss? He didn’t think about that,
never gave it thought. The radio is on,
the music blares, some one is singing
about love and missing her. He relaxes

as the bus move off, senses no one is
aware of the kiss, no talk, or chatter
of it. Even Trevor, who is the vanguard
of gossip, says nothing about that at all.

John is aware she sits across the aisle,
a little bit back. He could possibly see
her, if he glanced over the top of his seat,
but he doesn't, he looks at the passing

scene, trees, hedges, fields, cottages.
He tries to calm his beating heart, the
thump seems almost audible, as if
the whole bus can hear its thump.  

He closes his eyes and thinks of her,
the lips kissed, the eyes behind her
spectacles, her mouth, the way her
words were stilled by his kiss, were

drenched in her ****** mouth; he had
touched her, too. His hand had soft
touched her arm, drew her body closer
to him. She smelt of countryside, air,

and hay and fields. Her lips there were
feather soft; he could have slept there,
lay there, brushed the lips, as if a red  
butterfly had landed, sought refreshment.

He reruns the kiss, in his head, plays
it over and over. She is there just across
the way; he can almost sense her eyes
on him, like feelers reaching over the

seats to touch him. He opens his eyes,
Trevor has football cards in his inky
hands, he talks of this player and that,
that football team and this, but all John
can think on is the butterfly landing kiss.

I am a sitter at windows, said Lucia;
I am a thinker of sad thoughts, a gazer
at stars and moon and the bright hot
afternoon sun. My thoughts taunt me

like bullying children, they repeat
words and images and strings of verbal
abuse like repetitive *****. I sit at
the window with folded arms, my ***

numb on the window ledge, my eyes
peering through the netted curtains,
taking in the sights, the people, the cats
and dogs, the cars and buses, the odd

cyclists, the women pushing prams,
children crying at the side. I see and
know my childhood ghosts, the locked
doors, the no supper nights, the starving

rumblings of an empty stomach, words
bellowed through the doors by angry
parents. I am one who stares from windows,
one who snoops through netted curtains,

taking in the sights, hearing imperfectly
the outer sounds, the stolen kisses and hugs
from teenage loves, the backyards fondles,
*** on the cheap, lives, loves, kisses and

holds. I see new moons, quarter moons,
half moons and full moons and the lunatic
surge pulls me in and pushes me out, my
moods change like the waves of the sea,

the deeps drowning me in depression,
the black dog’s bark, thoughts of death
in a bath, slit wrists, over doses, hanging
behind a bathroom door like mother had,

eyes popping, tongue protruding. I think
of past loves, dream of what might have
been, the boys who came and went, the
ones who stayed and spoiled, the girls who

stayed the night for sensual *** or schoolgirl
kisses, of visits to an asylum before mother’s
demise, the locked doors, the cruel cries and
lunatic laughter, the odd looking staff, the eyes,

the tongues, the finger gestures from closing
doors. I see the work of the gods in my daily
stares, the passing people on their way to death
or work or love or indecent *** with another’s

love, or a child innocent as a flower’s bud
plucked and pulled and brain washed by an
adult hand and tongue. I am one who sees
what’s come to an end and what’s sadly begun.

I am the burner of bridges,
Said Bridget, the smoker of
Cigarettes who lies and stares
At the passing day. My childhood
Follows me like a shadow’s dark;
Its ghostly presence is always there,
Its non wise words echoing in my
Ear. I sleep with men for the lost
love, kiss them in the search for
my lost mother’s warmth, hug them
In the lonely hours. My dead babies
Cling to my legs, their tiny fingers
Clutch at my dress as I walk along;
Their eyes look up like lamps in the
Still night. I am the aborter of babes,
The owner of a useless womb; I push
Out stillborns like a factory, give birth
To a form but not to life; I am anyone’s
Woman, any man’s wife, I lay and gaze
At the moon, I watch smoke rise from
My cigarette, it forms rings as father did,
The smoke curling and rising with his
Phantom presence there in room, the
Ghostly cigarette hanging from his lips.
I have searched for God in the blackness
Of night, sought His love in the arms of men,
Awaited His coming in the winter’s wind;
His love is there, but I do not see, His arms
Caress, but I do not feel; I am alone still.
I am the walker of cities, the sitter in lone
Cafes, the easy ride, the fuckable dame;
I wear the badge of kiss me quick or leave
Me never. I am the sleeper of nights in a
Musty bed; see dead babies in heart and head.

Be yourself my bright-eyed babe,
Sense the wings beneath the skin,
Feel the frozen fires within,

Reach out with the timorous hand,
Touch the warm but dying frame,
Hold the heart and squeeze the blood,

Kiss the lips without return,
Which, being chilled with death,
Seal the coffin of your love.

Each morning Tess waited nervously
for the nursing officer to arrive on
the locked ward, and spot on time
each morning he came with his small
black briefcase and went to his office
on the locked ward of the asylum, and
after a few minutes she was allowed
in for her daily requested interview.

She sat in the chair opposite him, he
fresh from the sane world, sat there
with his brushed teeth and groomed
hair, intent look behind his glasses.

When can I get out of his ward and
home? she asked him each morning;
when we consider you are ready and
safe to be let out, he replied each day
with the same calm voice, the same
deep tones. And off she’d go to begin
another day with those whom she
considered mad or seemingly dead.

Every day at the same time they would
bring along the meals from the kitchen;
they would unlock the double doors,
bring in the trays of meals from a trolley,
leave the doors unattended for the time
it took to bring in the trays, and then
locked the doors again. Tess waited and
watched every time they came timing
by the clock on the wall how long it took
and how long the doors were unlocked.

This day she waited; time ticked slowly,
as she stood in her dressing gown by the
doorway to the bedrooms and watched
as they unlocked the thick double doors.

She waited until they unlocked the doors
and entered with the first of the trays,
then she ran like one possessed, out of
the doors and along the corridors and
heard the commotion behind her as she
ran, and the shouting and screaming and
calls, and the thundering footsteps behind
and then two burly male nurses tackled
her to the ground and held her there
beneath their mass and smelly breath,
seeing the lights on the ceiling flicker on
and off, not far away a woman screamed,
nearby she heard a man’s rough cough.

Yiska slits
her thin wrist
-broken glass

in a bin
in the ward
what a find-

the blood comes
plentiful
beautiful

she reckons
sitting back
in the bath

of water
motherly
and warming

reddening
but a nurse
on duty

looking to
tell Yiska
the doctor

wanted her
finds her there
in the bath

drifting off
and blood soaked
EMERGECY

SUICIDE
the nurse yells
up the ward

-locked up ward
those who are
mentally

unstable
are caged here-
I am in

the main lounge
looking out
the window

snows falling
some robin
perches there

on a branch
Yiska said
earlier

she'd make it
out of here
one way or

the other
there's a rush
of nurses

and a quack
follows up
half way through

-I'm guessing-
his breakfast
there's egg yoke

at the side
of his mouth
poor Yiska

so depressed
no way out
she told me

but I guess
watching the
brave robin

sitting there
that there is
if you look

really hard
to get out
out somewhere.

Miss Wren
was there again.
He watched her
from his table

sipping the cappuccino,
she window shopping,
her head slightly bent,
shoulders stooping,

wearing that nice
two piece again
with umbrella
in case of rain.

He studied her
as an artist,
took in the way
she stood,

shape of frame,
size of *****,
hips, way the legs
moved in gentle steps.

He sipped some more,
watched as she brushed
fingers through her hair,
stood upright,

hands to her back,
aching or no
he didn't know.
He wondered what thoughts

raced through her head,
what items in store
her eyes took hold,
what clothing would

she wish to wear,
he sipped slowly,
sitting there.
Now she moved on,

another window
took her sight,
she stopped and stared.
Hands in pockets,

legs together,
knees touching,
her mind elsewhere,
buying mentally,

wearing the dress
she'd seen,
doing an inner twirl.
He imagined her,

in all her beauty,
lying on his bed,
hands behind her head,
her ******* without bra,

her figure at an angle,
waiting for she knows
not what or whom,
who dreams of her,

who takes her
in his nightly sleep,
and puts away
the images

with the ones
he's had before,
sipped his cappuccino,
elbows on the table.

Miss Wren had gone,
he knew not where,
just the vacant space
where she had been,
hollow and bare.

Annona feigns sleep.
Marcus has bored her
With his talk of the

Campaign; droning on
About this aspect
And that and not a

Mark on his body
To show for all the
Dangers he says he’s

Been through. The flowers
He brought lie on her
Lap. Marcus gets up

To leave the room. I
Have forgotten how
Tired you must be,

He says looking at
His wife lovingly,
And me chattering

On and you wanting
Your bed and sleep, he
Adds craftily and

Smiling to himself.
Amy waits outside
The open door; she

Pretends to show her
Disinterest in
It all, holding back

A smile, knowing her
Mistress feigns well this
Tiredness and sleep.

Make sure your mistress
Gets to her chamber
Safely, Marcus tells

Amy bluntly and
Giving her his cold
Eyed stare. She nods and

Bows and watches him
Walk away with his
Usual swagger

And toss of head. If
You knew how I lay
In your wife’s soft bed,

She mutters, seeing
His figure go from
Her sight, how it was

I who kept her warm
And whom she kissed and
Made love to while you

Were away on your
Campaigns, you wouldn’t
Swagger so; would not

Seem so confident
Of your manliness
Or your wife’s fond love

And devotion. She
Smiles and gazes in
At her mistress who

Still feigns sleep, the red
Flowers lying on
Her lap like broken

Promises and frail
Tokens of lost love
After a long fought

Campaign. Amy stands
Waiting patiently
For her mistress to

Open her eyes and
Wishes her master
Were long gone; she wants

To share and sleep in
Her mistress’s bed
And that love again.

She sits on her bed
brushing her long brown hair
with the brush
her mother gave her.

She has had a bath,
needed after being
with him,
the way he was,

and for so long.
The bath so relaxing,
the water just right,
being able to lay there,

water over her,
suds from the borrowed
bath stuff( Gabrielle
need never know),

she feeling the water
fondling about her *******,
washing him off,
dissolving him

in the suds.
She brushes him out
of her hair,
each long stroke

and a bit more of him
is gone.
She stops and thinks.
Mid air the brush

and hand stay.
Was it always that way?
No, there was a time
when seeing him

was a pleasure,
she actually used to get
excited when he
was to come,

actually looked forward
to his presence,
his love making,
the things he used to do,

the way he did them.
Now, she dreads him
being there,
making love to her,

his fingers in her hair.
She brushes again,
downward strokes,
takes out the knots

that gather at the ends.
Was it ever love?
Was it other than physical?
Just a game of the ******?

She puts down the brush
and gazes at herself
in the old fashion mirror.
Still passable,

still presentable,
still has it in bucketfuls
as he used to say.
But, no,

she supposes not,
never really got to her heart,
never quite made it that far.
Liar, she tells herself,

you loved him more
than any other,
used to lay awake
at night thinking of him

and his next call,
it wasn't just *** after all.
No, I suppose not,
there was that strong

element of love,
that other than just
the physical,
other than the ******.

But that makes it worse
not better,
the fact I loved him once,
she tells herself,

takes it deeper,
takes it to the core
of the heart,
that place where each

string of nerve,
each particle of being
is torn open
like a ripe fruit

and ****** dry.
She's just had ***
with him,
just the physical,

just the lying down
and taking it bit.
Now, she loves him not,
the lying, cheating ****.

Lizbeth had hoped that getting Benedict to the small church on a week day during the holidays might be the moment of truth or sexuality which to her was the same thing the thing she had wanted ever since she'd read the book given to her by a girl in a higher form all about *** and the whole aspect it involved and with pictures and since she first saw Benedict that day at school getting off a school bus and passing her by but getting him to the church was one thing she still had to persuade him to make love there on one of the side pews not too wide and not particularly comfortable and to do that was another thing and having got him there riding on their bikes and entering the church she had pretended architectural interests he walked just ahead of her looking around running a hand over the top of the pews as he went then he paused and said it's quite small and looked at her she looked at the pew she thought might be best for the love making she crept in and sat down he came and sat next to her she patted the pew and said we could do it here? do what? make love he frowned at her looked back at the door at the back then at the altar end we can't why not? some one may come in no one comes in here weekdays they might she looked at him putting on her sad gaze we could do it no one will know he shifted away from her along the pew no I can't can't or won't? she pulled up the hem of her red dress to reveal a sight of her thigh to catch his eye can't do it here some old dear may come in and see us and have a heart attack so? what a way to go having witnessed that he stood up and walked along the aisle she pulled the hem of her dress down and sat gazing at him you disappoint me I never said I would I never even thought about it I never think about it she shifted along the pew I always think about it I dream about it even in class during a boring maths lesson I think about it he walked to the altar end and peered at the brass cross on an altar this is God's house we can't do that kind of thing why not? it's only an empty church a sepulchre of a dead God she said he stared at her sitting in the pew in her red dress her hair pulled tight in a ponytail that look of sulkiness about her he knew she was determined but this was not the place if any place was with her and he didn't want to not yet best go he said she looked at him pouting her lips not yet just stay awhile he shook his head and walked down the aisle towards the back door and turned to look at her coming? she sighed the effort had failed the scheme had not worked she felt empty as if it had been a waste of her time and effort where then? where can we go? he went out of the church door and was gone from sight she swore and got up and out of the pew and out the door to follow him he was standing by a gravestone by the side of the church and she stood beside him gazing at the gravestone the writing was almost worn away the name and dates illegible that's how we all end up she said buried and dead we'd best get back to the farm I’m helping with the milk weighing later he said and he walked down the narrow pathway to get to their bikes and she followed staring at his back at his blue shirt and jeans and wished they had done it even if only a quickie and so they got on their bikes and rode back towards the farm along narrow lanes with high hedges each side she sensing disappointment and thinking of *** with an empty feeling inside.

Let him wait,
she says,
drying under arms
after her bath,
the towel rubbing the skin,

talcum powder
on the side
ready to be applied,

he downstairs waiting,
impatient no doubt,
pacing up and down
or sitting smoking,
cursing under his breath.

A woman’s privilege
to take her time.
Beauty cannot be rushed.

She moves the towel
further down,
rubs between her thighs.  

Even as a child
she imagines
he was impatient,
unable to wait,
unwilling to be kept
against his will
until the time was right.

She smiles.
She senses
the towel’s roughness,
the rub of skin.

She recalls the wedding night,
the shyness *******,
she blushing,
he awkward all
fingers and thumbs,
she turning her back on him

to put on her night dress,
he looking away,
unwilling to view,
she in bed
covered to the neck,
he *******
bit by bit
avoiding her eyes,

she studying
the ceiling
the patch of grey,

he with night attire on
climbs into bed,
she feels him near,
his body nigh touching,
his hand out stretched.

In the dark,
she recalls,
they fumbled
and searched
and touched,
with grunts
and moans,
and woos
and ahs,
the night went on

until sleep
eased them
to a settled bliss,
ending with
that sticking kiss.

The bikes were parked outside the small church by a hedge where cows were mooing on the other side black and white cows mooing loudly it was warm the sun was almost over head the church silent other than the mooing cows and the occasional birdsong from hedgerows surrounding the church and churchyard where there were gravestones some quite old some more recent with flowers in vases or pots inside the church sat Lizbeth her red hair let loose over her shoulders dressed in her favourite black dress which was too short-her mother said although Lizbeth liked it so- and white ankle socks and black shoes slightly duffed she sat gazing at the altar end where coloured glass windows let in narrow shards of sunlight that settled on the small altar and the flagstones on the floor next to her sat the boy Benedict who looked at the church roof thinking of the girl wondering if it had been wise to come here again with her after the last time when she had proposed they have *** on one of the pews which they didnt of course as he had rejected such a thing it being a church and all but he had come after she said she wouldnt suggest such a thing again not in the church anyway the roof looked old he thought but it didnt seem to leak and that was good being such a small church and it seemed people seldom came except on the odd Sundays when a parson could be found he sensed her beside him her elbow touched his her thigh pressed against his he knew she pressed it so because he felt her move closer to him in the pew knees touched also it felt as if she was pressing more he couldnt decide for sure but it seemed so if she was going to try it on again he would get up and leave but she seemed content just to sit there and gaze at the altar end at the sunlight coming through the coloured glass windows at the brass crucifix on the altar table where a Christ was welded to the brass cross he sniffed the air surreptitiously her perfume was there strong powerful-she must have bathed in it to get it so strong- the churchy smell dead flowers old stone he closed his eyes briefly wanting to strengthen his senses other than sight other than the visual the sounds hearing sounds birdsong from outside she shifting beside him on the seat of the pew her foot tapping gently on the wooden praying form her hands tapping on the top of the pew smelt her more strongly he decided it was too strong too seductive and that was unsettled him that smell that deliberate soaking herself in such perfume she watched the sunlight shards of it with dust and such floating in the light like small planets in a vast universe of light she knew he was unsettled beside her he seemed rather stiff uneasy as if he feared she was about to pounce upon him and have her wicked way with him undressed him and then both naked **** for all they were worth but she knew she wouldnt get as far as undoing his top button of the shirt he was wearing no more likely than unbutton his jeans and look for his ***** and pull it out with her fingers like a bird with a worm in its beak she sat and stared at the sunlight feeling him beside her his thigh next to hers warm feeling him there stirring her but she had to control the urge fight back the temptation to grab him and kiss him and no no she had to do as she promised and settle for just being there beside him she hoped he could smell the perfume she wore-her mothers half a bottle it seemed splashed over her naked body that morning in the bathroom-you stink to high heaven her mother had said that morning at breakfast and its my perfume youve soaked in no need for so much you smell like a brothel her mother said but whether that was a good thing or not Lizbeth didnt know not knowing what a brothel smelt like anyway or caring for that matter who are you seeing? Her mother asked a boy Lizbeth replied what boy? Lizbeth said just a boy and said no more much to her mothers dissatisfaction and annoyance making her mother more depressed and anxious than normal Benedict looked sideways at her taking in her hair red and loose her freckled skin her bright eyes she looked around at him leaving the altar and crucifix sight alone quiet here she said he nodded I wonder how many people come here on a Sunday she said wanting to hear his voice she didnt care a fig how many dull people came to the church but his voice just the sound of it not many I guess he said more people buried outside than in here she said smiling he liked her smile but it also unsettled him made him feel things he didnt want to feel guess so he said she eyed him he seemed unsure of her maybe he felt unsure of her and himself of what his body might act if it acted at all shed put the short black dress it showed more leg revealed her thighs and if she parted her thighs just so it gave the impression of darker places just about concealed nothing would come of today visit she knew no *** would result no big kissing session much as she wanted it shed be lucky if anything came of it but she needed to keep in touch with him have him not far from her despite the ****** Queen Jane warning her off in that gentle manner at school she sighed he looked at her his hands tucked in his lap her hands wanted to do something wanted to touch him to feel him and deep down some part of her wanted him all wanted him inside her she dreamed of such in her nightly sleep some nights it seemed so real that she leaked O God she thought-God just a word to her not a concept or a being as such- Ive written an essay on this church he said for R.E at school and got good marks for it he added she couldnt give a **** about that but she listened and smiled and said thats good and it must have been interesting she said sure she wouldnt want to read it even if she could he smiled his eyes hazel she thought settled  on her moved over her he settled back in the pew felt the wooden rail against his spine the seat was hard couldnt sit too long here he thought let alone have *** like she wanted that time before he couldnt imagine it in any way seemed too out on a limb and why did she want *** so much what was it about *** that caught her and drove her he wondered keeping his hands away from touching her in case she got the wrong impression she wanted to touch him place a hand on his squeeze his hand put his hand under her dress and let him feel her but no she darent yet not today she turned and faced the altar end again and knew she'd have to dream a dream of this day but have things differently him having her away away and away.

The nurse turns the key
in the lock,
then pockets it
and walks on
with the tray of sandwiches
and puts it on the table
in the main ward.

He has watched her
come and lay
the tray down
and watches her
walk back
towards
the locked door.

He times it,
the journey
there and back,
how long it takes
to unlock the door
then that gap
of a few moments
between opening the door
and laying the tray aside
while she locks again.

Christine watches him,
stands beside him,
don't try
running out again,
she says,
they'll get you
like they did last time.

He sighs,
this place
is getting me down,
the locked doors,
the ward,
the confinement.

I know,
she says,
I’m here,
too, remember.

Each time you try
to escape
they’ll judge you
as unfit to leave.

Get a sandwich
and a coffee,
and we'll go sit
by the window,
away from the others,
she says.

So they get sandwiches
and pour coffee
and go sit
by the large window
of the sleeping quarters,
which looks out
on the woods
and grounds.

They are alone,
the others
are in the main lounge,
watching the TV,
others asleep
drugged up,
or sitting reading.

We'll get out one day,
she says,
but not, if you keep
trying those escapes
or suicide attempts.

He watches the grey sky,
birds drift there,
black rooks,
white and grey gulls.

Do you think
there is a God out there?
he asks.

Who knows,
she says,
scanning the horizon,
taking in the distant trees,
field covered
in white snow,
maybe there is,
maybe there isn't,
depends if it makes you
feel good to believe
he does or not.  

He watches a tractor
ploughing through
the snow covered field,
birds following
in the tracks.

This doesn't make sense
if there's no God,
he says,
how did it get here
all this stuff?

She looks at him,
the bloodshot eyes,
the growth of beard,
the hair unkempt.

More questions than answers,
she says softly,
why waste your time,
life is to live,
live for ***** sake;
I ain't wasting
any more time
on the ****
who left me
at the altar.

He gazes at her,
her thin frame
and figure
and pale complexion,
her hair brushed neat
into a ponytail.

I always wonder
about things,
he says.
Who made this
and why
and who did what
and when.

Well don't,
she says,
leave that for those
who care a ****,
live your life
and to the full,
because once you're dead,
your dead.

The tractor turns back
along the field,
gulls and rooks follow,
flap of wings,
exchange of black
and white and grey.

He sips the coffee,
she nibbles a sandwich,
her dressing-gown is open
at the top, revealing
a sight of ****,
flesh, soft, perfumed.

She doesn't bother
to cover up,
the room is warm,
the one who said he cared,
left her at the altar,
broken like some
thrown away doll.

He looks away,
takes the image,
folds it into the
see-some-other-time box,
dream time,
night time,
folding his arms
around an empty
dream, night,
he out and free,
and she building up,
what once feel down,
no more being left
at the altar
by another clown.

Mona sits on the school bus,
the noise of the other children
seems far away, she is indulging

in her thoughts. Lisa will get
on the bus soon. Her closeness
again. Sitting just here. Next to

me, Mona muses, patting the
seat next to her. The evening
before they had parted after

the tea. The bedroom romp
had filled her up. Each moment
seems to relive in her mind.

She looks out of the window,
passing countryside, cows in
fields, trees, birds. They had

almost drowned in the downpour
of rain from the woods to the
house the afternoon before.

Drenched to the skin. Get out
of those wet clothes, they had
been told by a parent. And they

did so. That started it all off.
Naked and drying. How had it
got that far? She thinks, watching

a ******* the other side of the
aisle of the bus talk about
watching such and such on TV.

She wonders how Lisa feels now.
The day after. After such things,
such sights, such deeds. The bus

draws to a stop. Others get on.
Lisa comes up the aisle and sits
beside her. She smiles and fiddles

with her school bag. Her fingers
nervous, like spiders on the run.
Sleep all right? Mona asks. Yes,

Lisa answers. Their eyes meet.
Mona feels a thump in her breast;
her heart seems to want to burst

open. Lisa leans closer. Dreamt of
you, she whispers. Did you? Mona
says, taking in Lisa lips moving, her

eyes, the nose. Lisa nods. Looks
around her. The bus moves on.
Mona wants to speak but her

mouth seems sealed. Lisa turns
again and looks at her. Seems
strange now seeing her clothed

after the nakedness and kissing
and holding. Lisa puts her hand
over Mona’s, squeezes, touches,

flesh on flesh. Mona breathes
in deeply. The touch, the feel
of her. She thinks of the last kiss

the night before. Not now of
course. Not with others about.
Not here. They seem in a different

world to the others. Adrift on
their own ship, wild seas. Waves
of passion inside. They look away

each to a different horizon. Love
locked. Hands touching, skin on
skin. Father O’Brien would call it sin.

You waited for Fay
by the entrance
of the outdoor
swimming pool

in Bedlam Park
the Saturday afternoon sun
still strong
the voices and screams

of the kids in the pool
coming through
the high hedge
that surrounded all

around except where
the entrance was
with its turnstiles
and changing rooms

and wire boxes
where kids
kept their clothes
Pete Badham and his cronies

had gone by and in
a few minutes before
giving you the hard stare
which you returned

with equal share  
you wondered if Fay’s father
had stopped her going
finding some passage

in the Bible that he claimed
made it a sin
or maybe she had been kept in
for some misdemeanour  

but then you saw her
coming through the park
in a blue dress
with a white towel

wrapped under an arm
thought you might not come
you said as she came  
to the entrance

Mum let me come
after Daddy’d gone
off to work
she said

she opened a hand
to show the coins
held there
her eyes you noticed

were red
as if she’d been crying
glad you’re here
you said

me too
she replied
and you both went in
each to the separate areas

for boys and girls
once you had changed
and put your clothes
in the wire box

you went out
to the pool
and dived in
the cool water

and waited for Fay
to come in
Dave Walker was there
at the deep end

keeping an eye
on Badham and his cronies
giving you the thumbs up
when Fay came out

she stood hesitant
on the edge
of the pool
dressed in her black

swimming costume
come on in
you called and waved
she climbed down

into the water
and swam towards you
her fair hair
darkened by the water

her legs flapping
behind her
as she swam
her hands pushing through

the water’s skin
as she came to you
she put her arms
around your neck

her damp face
close to yours
you put your arms
around her waist

and she winced
and you let go
what’s up?
you asked

nothing
she said
just a bruise
and she swam off

to the edge of the pool
and you followed her
and she pulled herself
onto the edge

and sat there
looking out
at the other kids swimming
you heaved yourself

onto the edge of the pool
beside her
she looked away
towards the high hedge

and you noticed
thin red marks
on her thigh
what’s that?

you asked
pointing to her thigh
sign I have sinned
she whispered

Daddy said
to show the flesh
is a sin
and wouldn’t let me come

and I answered him back
and he made the mark of
me having sinned
she stared at you

and touched your hand
say nothing to anyone
she said
promise?

ok
you said
let’s go swim
she said

and dived in again
you seeing
the red marks
and sensing the pain.

What's arsenic?
Lydia asked

she broke the word down
into two components
making it sound  
a bit rude

it's a poison I think
I said

POISON?
she said loudly

we were walking up
Meadow Row
it was Saturday morning
and we were
on our way
to Saturday matinee

why?
I asked
looking at her sideways
taking in her lank hair
and thin frame

my mum said this morning
that she'd put arsenic
in my dad's tea
and poison can **** you
can't it?

can do yes
I said

and where does
she get it from?
Lydia asked

don't know
chemist I expect
it's a sort of chemical thing
I said

what if she gets me
to buy it
will I be arrested
for helping Mum
poison Dad?
will I hang
if I'm found guilty?
she said in desperation

we crossed the bomb site
off Meadow Row
over rough bricks
and rubble

I think she was kidding
just saying it
I said

she sounded serious to me
Lydia said

why'd she say it?
I asked

my dad came home
drunk again last night
singing at the top
of his voice
in the Square
I'll walk you home
again Kathleen
and  Mum was none
too pleased

I see
I said
looking at her
as we walked
the faded flower dress
she wore had seen
better days
and the cardigan
of off white
had only two buttons
I don't think
you can buy
arsenic that easy
these days
and they wouldn't sell it
to a nine year old girl
I said

they wouldn't?
she said

no not these days

but what if Mum buys it
and kills my dad?

she won't
she loves your old man
too much
I said

I don't think she does
Lydia said
not this morning any way

we walked across
the crossing and along
the New Kent Road

if she does
I said
and your old lady hangs
then I'm sure
my mum will adopt you
as my sister

Lydia looked at me seriously
I don't want
to be your sister
she said
I want to marry you
when we're older
and I can't marry
my brother can I?  

I looked ahead
as we approached
the ABC cinema
I guess not
I said

the thought hadn't entered  
my little boy's head.

It’s the fifth hotel room
in as many days
the fifth morning waking
and standing there

by the window
watching her sleep
and he thinks
no one sleeps

like she does
no one seems to enjoy
sleep like she does
as if she were born to it

and he lets his eyes
rest on her
for a few moments
lets them move

over her lying there
wanting to climb
back in bed
and make love to her

but not while she’s sleeping
of course
although he did
years before

with some other woman
that plump one
who had drunk herself
into a slumber

and had said
before she had nodded off
we must make love
and so he had

but it had been no fun
it had no satisfaction
he recalls
taking in

the sleeping woman
before him how
she barely seems to breathe
as she sleeps

and he moves closer
and puts his ear
near to her
careful not to let

his breath wake her
his warm breath
stir her awake
she is moody if woken

before time
will sulk over breakfast
down stairs
in the hotel restaurant

with a face like thunder
sitting at the table
staring down
at her cereal bowl

picking at the food
sipping coffee
no best to let her sleep
he thinks as he moves away

takes in her red night dress
the one he’d bought
in Chicago
and the store girl

had looked at him
as he stood there
with it in his hands
and smiled

and the girl had
a kind of **** smile
one of those smiles
that seemed to say

wish we were an item
wish that red nightie
was for me
but it wasn’t

and he left the store
with it wrapped up
in a neat package
and gave it to her

just before
they came away
and her eyes opened up
when she saw it

and she’s worn it
the last five nights
and it has soaked her up
into its cloth now

her perfume
her perspiration
her skin touching it
and it enfolding her

like a mother
and o look at her
sleeping there
he says to himself

look how she sleeps
her red hair
matching her nightdress
o he wants to hold her

and kiss her
and feel her close
o how he wants
to enter her

and explode within her
she lets out
a soft sigh
he stands still

his hand in his pockets
she breathes out
one long sigh
if only she would wake

he muses
his tongue
at the corner
of his mouth

if only she would turn now
and say
come on
come and make love to me

but she doesn’t
she moves her leg
her toes move
her buttocks twitch

her fingers scratch an itch
wake up Sweetheart
he mumbles
wake up

his disappointed self says
wake up you *****.

It was a fine day
and one legged Anne
wanted to go down
to the beach

in her wheelchair
with you pushing her
I don’t want those other kids
following us down

Skinny Kid
she said to you
and so you went
and asked Sister Paul

and she said
Ok but mind
the incoming tides
and so you pushed her

in the wheelchair
along the path
and out the back gate
and onto the path

that led to the beach
and the sands
and the tide
was coming in

and you stopped
the wheelchair

as near as was safe
and she said

thank Christ
the others aren’t here
to spoil this moment
with their noise

and yakking
just us and the sea
and breeze
and the smell of salt

and you stood behind her
looking at the horizon
the waves
and the seagulls

in the air
hey come here
beside me Kid
I need to have you

where I can see you
so you stood
beside her
and she grabbed

your hand
and gave it a squeeze
breathe in that air
this is ******* life

as it ought to be
just you and me
and the elements
and the only thing missing

is my amputated leg
rotting some place
or burnt to ashes
who knows

and who cares
and she paused
and looked at you
and then out to sea

and you looked at her
at her black hair
and the one leg
protruding

from her summer dress
and the one shoe
and white sock
and she breathed in deep

and said
take it all in Kid
this beats
being ******* dead  

and you did
and took in her words
right into your
11year old head.

Dalya sits
in some bar
beside me

in Oslo
she sipping
a cool beer

me likewise
smoking too
how was she

last night then?
I ask her
what you mean?

you make it
sound as if
I had ***

with the *****
I meant how
did it go?

just the same
on about
the men she's

had *** with
as if I
cared a ****

who she's had
between her
skinny thighs

Dalya says
and how's he
the Aussie

you share with
in the tent?
he's ok

but his talk
is mostly
on good beer

or luscious
hot Sheilas
typical

just like men
Dalya moans
what do you

talk about
to the dame
in your tent?

I ask her
nothing much
certainly

not about
my *** life
she then sips

her cool beer
eyeing me
do you talk

to him then
that Aussie?
she asks me

sure I do
what about?
about beers

of the world
and cricket
and how long

it takes him
to wake up
after ***

you never
she utters
spluttering

a mouthful
of warm beer
over me

I like it
how her eyes
light up bright

like small stars
on a cold
frosty night.

Isis knows
the finger

going down
her bony

spine slowly,
belongs to

(without doubt)
her girlfriend

young Jodie.
The finger

moves between
the valley

of her ***,
circling

the soft fuzz,
hovering

just above,
predator

of deep love,
moistening

the fruit cup,
wet mouthing

the dark dugs,
tongue licking

the milk mounds,
ear to breast

hearing soft
the beat thump

of her heart
as her thighs

spread wide like
the Red Sea,

and the hushed
voice and sigh

like buzzing
of the wild
honey bee.

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

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

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

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

the corridors
are packed too
kids passing
back and forth

teachers on
their way places
I say
she stares out

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

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

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

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

I say
meaning?
she says
both here close

but far from doing
anything
I say
she looks around her

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what can
a 14 year old boy do?

You sat in Nero’s
the coffee cafe
in the high street
sipping your cappuccino

and there was a guy and dame
on the next table talking
and as hard as you tried
not to listen

the conversation crept
into your air space
invaded your ears
and she said

I work all day
long hours
and when I come home
all he wants

is to have it off with me
and the guy said
what each day?
yes

the dame said
and I told him  
I’m tired when I get home
it’s not the first thing

on my mind
when I get it in
and what did he say?
the guy asked

the dame wore glasses
and sipped her coffee
and there was coffee foam
on her upper lip

like a moustache
and she wiped it off
with a napkin
and then she said

he said he’d been
at work all day too
and it was the first thing
on his mind when he got home

you sipped more
of your cappuccino
your wife was talking
about something she’d seen

in a store
but it was not her size
and you showed the look
of understanding

and your son
was probably thinking
of the next football match
on TV

and the dame said
all I want to do
when I get home from work
is take a bath or shower

and unwind
the guy nodded
and you supposed he wished
he could be there

when she took her
bath or shower
and you looked beyond them
at the crowded cafe

the various people there
trying to push
the conversation away
but it was still there

the guy said
what did you tell him then?
o him
he never listens

she said
he only hears
what he wants to hear
the guy leaned forward

and she said
it gets on my nerves
having that to face
each day I get in

from work
you looked
at your coffee cup
the whiteness of the china

the colour of the coffee
and the conversation going on
and he said
it’s so bad that

he needs to back off
and the dame said
I gave in eventually
let him have his way

you looked at your wife
as she talked
of the weather
and the threat of snow

and you
looking at your cell phone
thinking it was time to go.

You rode bikes with Milka
to the bridge over the river
and stood looking down
at the flowing water

and talked
of the latest
Elvis Presley film
you’d seen

and she said that she
had wanted to see it
but her mother
had forbidden it

saying it was not
the type of film
for her age
then you talked

of the film you’d seen
while working
as a cinema projectionist
called Ben Hur

and the great
chariot races in it
she leaned close to you
as you talked

her hands
on the brick bridge
her hips pressing
gently against yours  

she said she like it
when you came
to their farmhouse
and practised judo

with her brothers
and she could watch
and as she spoke
you studied her

her short fair hair
her large blue eyes
her delicate hands
the fingertips rubbing

against the bricks
of the bridge
the simple
green shift dress

she had on
and do you remember
that time you had them
both on the grass at once

in that karate fight?
she said excitedly
and you noticed
maybe

for the first time
her small firm bust
her figure
kind of huggable

although you hadn’t
hugged her
and she went on
about wanting to go

out with you
but her brothers
had said
Baruch won’t be

interested in you
he likes pretty girls
and you looked
at her eyes

as she spoke
how large they were
yet not unbeautiful
the orbs blue

portraying
wide worlds of you
and how old are you?
she asked

because they
keep saying
you’re too old
for me

16
you said
well
she said

I’m 14
so that isn’t
too old is it?
no

you said
seeing her eyes look
kind of watery
like small fish bowls

then she talked
of having seen you
in her dreams
and that in her dreams

you had kissed her
where did I kiss you?
you asked
on the lips of course

she said
no I meant
where abouts
was I when I kissed you?

o
she said blushing
in the barn
by the farmhouse

o I see
you said
never having been
there with her

only with her brothers
to do judo fights
she looked down
at the water

her eyes wide
and watery
a bird flew by
a bird song sounded

you leaned close to her
and kissed
her ear
through her

fair hair
and she looked at you
and you saw
new worlds

being born there
amongst the blue
Milka smiling
at an older you.

You made your way from the john
to the dining table
and Auntie said

have you washed your hands?
yes
you said

are you sure?
Auntie asked
looking at you

with her fixed stare
and the black mutt
under the table

gazed at you too
I washed them this morning
you said

let me see your hands
Auntie said
and so you held out your hands

and she turned them over and up
and held them looking at them
you’re meant to wash them

after going to the toilet each time
she said
not just

when you get up
in the morning
she released your hands

and you looked at them
as if they were suddenly there
before you for the first time

so you had best wash them
Auntie said
before I dish up your dinner

and so you went back
to the wash room
and turned on the tap

and taking soap
between your hands
you washed and rinsed

and dried them
on the white towel
on the rail and went back

to the dining room
and showed your aunt
that’s better

she said
now go sit down
and wait for your dinner

and the black mutt
put its chin on your lap
waiting in anticipation

for titbits from your plate
and Auntie called out
from the kitchen

remember to say your prayer
before meals
and you said ok

and muttered
thank you for what I’m about to eat
may there be few vegetables

and lots of meat
and the mutt’s dribble
wet your thigh

its jaw lingering there
giving you
its dark eyed stare.

Dave West
came into the playground
lunchtime and said

That chick you like
she’s peering through the wire
of the girl’s playground

looking for you
like some cat on heat
and you looked across

to where the girl’s playground was
and there she was
peering through the wire

and seeing you
she waved a hand
and you waved back

You ought to avoid girls
West said
They’re nothing trouble

to a guy’s soul
and a drain on his purse
and nerves

he gave Jane a sour gaze
and turned back
and looked at the other boys

kicking ball or playing cards
or running about playing tag
I like her

you said
She’s not like you say
she’s got depth

and reads books
West sighed and said
You got it bad

and that’s not good
as the song goes
and he laughed and said

Look come play ball or tag
or go up onto the bushes
and have a smoke

but you saw her
standing there shyly
her hand by her side

peering through
the green wire
you peered back

and smiled hoping
she could see your smile
wondering if you ought

to wave again
not giving a ****
what West

or the other boys
thought or said
and you could feel

the afternoon sun
touching your head
and the sense of life

being on an edge
and she and you
separated like prisoners

by wire and regulations and rules
like two wise lovers
in a land of loveless fools.

You rode the steep hill
on your bike
to get to the farm house
where Jim and Pete were

to practice Judo
in the grass about the house
or in the small hay barn
their sister Monica

was by the fence
when you rode in
the driveway
are the boys about?

you asked
might be
she said
looking at you  

what do you want them for?
Judo practice
you replied
getting off the bike

and leaning it
against the fence
can you teach me?
will your mother let you?

why shouldn’t she?
ask her and see
you said
looking away from her

and gazing at the fields
and woodland all about
she might if you ask her
Monica pleaded

moving nearer
her hand holding the fence
by your hand
when you’re older

you said
I’m old enough
she said
the farmhouse door opened

and her mother
put her head
out the door
the boys will be out soon

she said
do you want to wait indoors?
are you worrying
Benedict again Monica?

no just talking
is she being a pain?
she asked you  
no she’s ok

you said
I’ll wait for the boys here
you said
ok then

but Monica come in
and help me prepare lunch
Monica pulled a face
like ******* a lemon

and sighing
and cursing
under her breath
followed her mother

indoors but before
she went in
the door way
she turned and blew

a kiss from the palm
of her small chubby hand
then disappeared
you caught the blown kiss

in the shell form
of your hands
and studied it
in your palm

then put it in the pocket
of your jeans
where it could evaporate
and do no harm.

Been there enough times
to remember it.

That couple ran it.
Her with the bust

and him
with the moustache.

Had some good times there,
you came with us once

didn’t you?
Some years ago now.

Nice place,
Ramsgate.

We took the girls
when they were young.

Freda, Elsie, Sally
and young Enid here.

They thought I
was a poor soul

surrounded by females.
Nag, nag,

and nag it was.
Back in those days,

it was a different couple
had it first.

That Mr and Mrs Gentry.
Him with the one eye

and her with the figure
of a hippo.  

Good old days.
Before the last war that was.

Dionne Warwick was singing
you’ll never get to Heaven
if you break my heart

over the small white
transistor radio
under the covers

of the bed after
having made love
to your girlfriend

and you both snuggled there
she running a finger
down your spine

and you kissing
one of her small *******
and the transistor crackled

and the voice on the radio
went in and out of tune
and you said

hush Sweetie Pie
or the others
will hear you

and she put a hand
over her mouth
to stifle the giggles

and the smell of lilac
and sweating bodies
filled your nose

and the singing
made you sway
and you sensed

the flesh warm
and sweet
beneath you

and you listened
for the sound of others
maybe along the hall

or moving in their sleep
and her lips
kissed your ear

and her tongue
reached right in
and you thought that

paradise
that music
the warm flesh

the kisses
and her tongue
easing itself

in and out
of your ear
and the moon lit up

in the corner
of the window
bright and angel like

over the top
smiling glow
and you and she

in the bed
and you opened  
your eyes

and you were alone
it had all been
a dream in your head.

Fay rubs her
rosary
between thumb

and finger
the black beads
holding prayers

but she thinks
they also
bring comfort

to her heart
usually
when her dad

loses it
and hits out
because she'd

forgotten
the Latin
of the Creed

mispronounced
Latin prayers
Baruch said

(the Jew boy
from downstairs)
your old man

doesn't know
the essence
of his faith

just the shell
of it all
Baruch said

God was one
for each and all
for the big

and the small
for the good
and the bad

for the wise
and the fool
her father

doesn't like
young Baruch
and forbids

her to talk
or see him
but she does

and meets him
secretly
for their talks

and their walks
in the park
at the old

cinema
Fay puts her
rosary

in the small
cloth pocket
of her dress

her fingers
leaving there
the small but
special prayer.

It was a day trip out
to some seaside place
arranged by the Gospel church
for kids whose parents

were poor
and having got on the coach
you sat in a seat
by the window

and waved at your mother
standing on the pavement
along Rockingham Street
and she waved back

then this girl sat beside you
who you didn’t know
and she smiled and said
all right if I sit here?

sure
you said
and looked back out
at your mother

and waved again
and she waved back
and you thought
who is this girl?

and why is she
sitting next to me?
and she looked at out
the window

and waved to her mother
who started talking
to your mother
and they both waved back

to you and the girl
and you said
do you want to sit
by the window?

and she said
ok yes that’d be nice
and so she got out
and you got out

then she got in
and sat
by the window
and you sat

down beside her
and then the coach
started up
and drove off

and you both waved
at your mothers
until they were out of sight
and the girl turned

and said
I’m Rachel
this is my first time
to the seaside

and you said
you can walk around
with me if you want to
and she said

that’d be good
I don’t know
anyone else here
and so she did

all day
walked around with you
along the beach
and on the sands

making sandcastles
and in the cafe
where they took you all
for a meal

of fish and chips
and she talked
and talked
and smiled  

and laughed  
and once she took
hold of your hand
and it seemed

for a while
that she was happy
at least it seemed so
by the width of her smile.

Anny Horowitz doesn’t run down
the shopping aisles
as your grandchildren do,
she holds the trolley,

steadying it with her hand,
your ghostly friend,
your little Jew.
None sees her form,

her bright blue eyes,
her blonde hair
tied with ribbon,
her rosy complexion.

She ghostly moves,
amazed by the Aladdin’s cave
of goods upon the shelves,
the packets and boxes,

the loud advertisements
hanging from the air
here and there,
everywhere you

and she stare.
Neither Strasbourg
nor Bordeaux
nor Tours

nor Auschwitz
was like this,
no overpowering display
of commodities on show

of this she tells you
and to a degree you know,
and what was on show
at Auschwitz is still there

in memories or records
or photographs
with staring faces
and deep set eyes.  

Anny waits and watches
as the conveyor belt
moves the goods
to the woman

at the till
who pushes buttons
or scans bar codes
and pushes by

to the paid for end
and your son
and grandchildren
pack all away.

Anny gazes on the process,
then at you, smiles,
your little friend,
your ghostly Jew.

Miss Pinkie
and her son
at a bar

and I was
near to them
sitting down

in a chair
and he said
things to her

as he looked
back at me
she told me

he was in
the police force
and married

and said things
back to him
looking back

towards me
and smiling
I think he's

probably
saying to her
he's too young

young enough
to be your
oldest son

and he's right
I am young
enough to

be her son
but what he
doesn't know

or maybe
doesn't want
to know is

I've shafted
his mother
to the music

of Mahler
both of us
well sauced on

Scotch whiskey
sometimes on
her blue couch

other times
on her bed
with moonlight

coming through
her bedroom
wide window

and moon glow
playing on
my naked

rising ***
Miss Pinkie
and her son

return with
all our drinks
and sit down

I watch him
wondering
what he thinks.

I would have loved
to have had ***
with Kafka
Nima said
something about him
the photo of him

I sat opposite her
in the café
in Charing Cross Road
she had a coke
I sipped coffee

I feel the same
about Marilyn Monroe
I said
love to have got
her in bed

Nima looked at me
disdainfully
you would
she said

not necessarily
for ***
I said
just to listen
to her voice
sense her being there
the scent of her

Nima shook her head
ok I’d listen to Kafka
and sense
his being there
but *******
his **** off
at the same time
she said

an old guy
on the other side
of the café
gave her a look

have you read
any of his books?
I asked

some
she said
the one where he turns
into a big beetle

actually it doesn't say beetle
in the book
it says gigantic vermin
which people has interpreted
as a beetle or bug
I said

she sipped her coke
it's his body
I want to go to bed
with not his book
she said

he's dead
I said
died in 1924

shame
she said
he doesn’t know
what he's
missed out on

I guess he did
I said

she smiled
have to be satisfied
with his books then
won't I

we drained our drinks
and went on our way
I went to Dobell's
Jazz Record shop
and bought
a Coltrane LP

then we walked
to the train station
where she got a train
to the hospital
where she was being treated
for her drug addiction

I went home to play
my Coltrane
on my record player
via another train
thinking of her
and Kafka
and me and Monroe
having ***
in that cheap hotel
off Trafalgar Square
where Nima and I
once had *** there.

I dreamed
of you
last night.

Not the 29 year
old you
who died

as I held
your hand,
but the

younger you,
the young kid
with the smile

and big
blue eyes,
the adventurous

you, the climber,
the you
in the cowboy hat

and gun,
the blue
eyed you,

the one
mischievous
for fun.

I dreamed
of you
last night.

Not the 29
year old who
died and flat-lined

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

that one,
that you,
my son.

Jane waited for you
by the narrow road
that led to Linch farm

the water tower visible
against the afternoon sky
of pale blue and white

cold clouds
she was dressed
in a grey coat

and her dark hair
was pinned back
with grips

you noticed
blueness
about her lips

the cold taking toll
wasn’t sure
if you would show

she said
the coldness
and such

I said I would
and I say
what I mean

you replied
once you were close to her
she took her hands

out of the coat pockets
and linked her arm
through yours

where shall we go?
she asked
you know it better

around here than I do
you choose
you said

let’s go up
the dust track
to the hollow tree

on the way up
to the Downs
she said

ok
you said
and so you walked along

and up the dust track
side by side
and she talked

of the wintery trees
and what birds
there were still about

and how she liked
spring best with the coming
of flowers and birds nesting

and you listened
looking at her
as she spoke

watching her lips move
how when she spoke
her white teeth showed

and now and then
her tongue would show
and it reminded you

of that kiss she gave you
up by Diddling church  
as you stood looking

at the grave stones
and she gazed at you
and then kissed

and her tongue
touched yours
and it was like heaven

as if someone
had opened up
your heart

and stuck
their tongue in there
and as you thought

about that kiss
she talked of some girl
of a cowman

who’d got pregnant
and how did that happen?  
she asked

and you said nothing
but listened on
and then you reached

the hollow tree
and climbed inside
and sat down

looking out
of the hole
in the side

and it felt cosy
in there
like a small home

and she leaned
in against you
and there was silence

and you looked at her
at her eyes
and hair

and how her lips
were parted
and her white teeth

showed and her tongue
waiting to speak
and you wondered

about that kiss again
and whether
it would happen this time

there in the hollow tree
out of sight
of others

and she showed you
tucked between
her small *******

a small locket
which used to be
her mother’s.

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

up the narrow
country lane
high hedgerows
birds singing

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

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

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

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

did you?
she said
no just saw it
and took

a mental picture
of it
she smiled
some boys about

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

they should
know better
she added
as we drove

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

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

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

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

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

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

about me?
I asked
you're trustworthy
Mother said

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

at her hands
slender
white
and the nails

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

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

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

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

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

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

the milking sheds
where we helped
the cowmen
to set up

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

taking in
her figure
the way she stooped
her hair

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

as tenderly
maybe she will
I inwardly said  
taking in

her total being
into my 13 year old head.

Is this you in the wedding
Photograph? Yes. St Mark’s church.
1951. Late June.
Your hair looks nice, and the dress

Looks fine. Not mine. It was the
One my mother wore and her
Mother before her. A white
Handed down family gift

For marriages that end in
Doom. Your husband looks dapper
Hanging onto your arm like
Grim death. Don’t waste you breath on

Him he’s gone now. Was he no
Good? He thought he was the dog’s
Dinner but he was the pig’s
Backside and no mistake. Gone

You say? Dead? Long since and no
Regrets. Why keep the photo
If it was bad? To remind
Me of that fateful day and

His thin sickly smile. Why so?
Why keep it thus? To remind
Me of his premature death,
The grimfaced miserable cuss.

(Poem composed in 2008.)

Sister Teresa felt the cold evening wind through the cloisters. Shadowy figures sounded near by; the sense of waiting; the held breath; the stillness before the office of Vespers. She refused the wheelchair; wanted to walk along the cloisters to the church. A novice sister held her arm to guide her; Sister Bernadette's young hand on her elbow. Blind now apart from shadows and imagined faces from memory. She sighed. Sensed touch of the novice's hand. Breathed in the evening air; remembered the years of waiting in the cloister; the anticipation; the prepared prayers; the youthful voice gone now, she mused, releasing a breath-like prayer. She recalled Sister Clare's embrace by the wall where the cloister bell-rope hung like a tail. God is my witness and saviour, Sister Maria had said. She's dead too, Sister Teresa, thought, peering through her darkness at the shapes and figures ahead. Was it Jude who had kissed her once or was it more? She wasn't sure. Time distorts, she muttered softly, but none took notice. She breathed the air; sensed the dampness; the evening prayers hung in the air of yesteryear. The novice squeezed affectionately; her whispered voice soft and child-like. Did she need the toilet? Was that what she said? Words carried off in the air like the dead friends of her contemplative life. She shook her head; squeezed shut her eyes until lights flashed behind them like a stormy night. Whether the novice was pretty or not, she had no idea; had no sense of her except the touch of hand or softness of voice. Papa was in his heaven, but Mama where was she? Do not let them touch she had said; men are such creatures. Flesh on flesh; lip to lip. Jude had kissed and lain with her, she thought through her muddled mind. Clare had held; dead and buried; her mole-tilled ground holy still, she wanted to say, but only sighed. Movement. Bodies moved. Sister Bernadette touched her arm; gently prodded onwards; said gentle words; failed to keep hold of; slipped away like soap in a bathtub. She tried to clutch the passing words, but silence returned black and deep as the darkness of her days and nights. Chill in the air. Sighed. The footsteps on stone; the echo of chants surrounding as she moved to the pews reserved once for the lay-sisters, none now, all left or dead and swept away like the dead leaves of autumn. She sat; uttered the prayers; listened for the soft voice of the novice nun; wanted to feel; to hold; to touch. Not too much, not overmuch. God be my witness and saviour, she whispered between prayers and chants, recalling a kiss, an embrace, but not of Judas, not of Judas. She breathed the chill air; imagined Clare was there; imagined Christ's breath on her cheek and brow; a light far off beckoning from a distant hill.

You pause the sewing machine, listen for any sounds other than the machine; there is none. It is oddly silent except for birdsong from the garden. You gaze out of the window in front of you, see the trees, the flowers, the children playing in the garden next door, and smile weakly. Your daughter would have been playing out there now if death hadn’t taken her, if things had been different. You can almost picture her there, her fine black hair, her deep dark eyes, that small smile about her mouth that seemed ready to break out into a laugh at the slightest thing, but the image you try to bring to the scene fades, is gone. You start up the sewing machine again, push the dress through with your fingers, try to drown out the thoughts and sound of children playing, of their happiness and joy, their youthfulness, their innocence. You look up again at the vase of flowers on the windowsill, at the potted plant that Bruno bought for you. He wants more from you than you are willing to give, wants more than you can give any more. Since Kitty’s death, you are unable to respond that way, unable to let his touch feel your flesh, touch you anywhere. You have not made love to him since that dreadful day; have not even thought about that side of things with him anymore. You think of being away from him, going away to the coast, staying with Sally in her house near the sea. You stop the machine and stare at the dress on the table. It is a child’s dress, one you are making for a friend’s daughter. To know Kitty would have been that size now, she would have loved it, would have fitted well inside the cotton dress quite well. Tears swell in your eyes, you bite your lip, you want to cry out loudly so that the entire neighbourhood would hear, know your grief. You wish Bruno would go away, divorce you, say something harsh, something real, but all he does is attempt to make things as they were and it cannot be that way anymore. You will go to Sally, will stay with her, will share her bed as you did that summer of Kitty’s death. Warm, safe, and a completely new lifestyle, a different approach to love and ******* that you had not dreamed existed. The thought cheers you slightly, makes your groin tighten, brings images to mind you thought you had left behind. And Sally will say, Jane, you are all too pale, too thin, and warp you in her arms, kiss you and you will dissolve into her and her love and bed, and Bruno will be gone from you as Kitty is, but she will remain in your heart and memory, will be there beside you smiling, playing with her dolls, singing those songs she sang, as you and Sally drive away the dark days. You start up the machine again, gaze at the trees, push the dress through eagerly to its near completion, watch as seagulls linger over head, calling the welcome of sea and a safe haven, and Kitty’s touch on your arm, ghostly, but near, so near.

Yiska pares her nails,
files away
along the top
in a focused motion.

Her fingers grip
the nail file,
her eyes are looking
at the Indian woman
sitting cross legged
on the sofa,
mumbling to herself.

Naaman watches
them both, standing
by the door
of the ward
his dressing gown open,
the cloth belt confiscated.

The morning sun shows
smears on the windowpane,
the kid who comes each day
in care, stands there
licking like some cat.

A book of philosophy
is wedged in Naaman's
dressing gown pocket,
a torn off cardboard lid
of a Smarties pack
is the marker,
he's on the Spinoza page.

Yiska puts the file
in the pocket
of her nightgown
and stares at her nails,
bringing her fingers up
for close inspection.

A nurse passes by
and holds out her hand
towards Yiska.

You ought not have
that file,
she says.

Why not?
Yiska says.

Some might use it
to cut open their wrists,
the nurse says.

Yiska gives up
the nail file reluctantly,
staring at the nurse,
who walks off
towards the ward office
to lock away the file.

The Indian woman
puts her hands on her knees,
closes her eyes.

Naaman sits next
to Yiska and says,
Nothing's sacred here.

She's right though,
Yiska says,
someone may
have used it
to dig open their wrists.

I would have done,
after he left me
at the altar
on our wedding day.

I'd have slit my wrists
or neck or any place,
if it had got me
out of this hell hole
of a world.

I'd not have left you
at the altar,
Naaman says.

But he did,
she says,
laying her head
on his shoulder,
wiping her nose
on the back
of her hand.

Naaman studies her feet
which are bare,
no slippers or socks.

She has folded her legs
beneath her
so that her feet
stick out at the end,
her knees showing
where the nightgown ends.
After the last ECT,
Naaman woke in
the same side room,
she after him,
on another bed.

He had seen her there,
spread out
in her white nightgown
as in a shroud,
eyes shut,
mouth open,
teeth showing.

When she woke,
she said,
I hate that treatment,
gives me a fecking headache.
Me, too,
he said.

She stared at him,
her eyes opening wide.
Sit me up,
she said,
or I'll puke.

He got off the bed
and helped sit her up.

She sat on the edge
of the bed and said,
Thanks, you're a life saver.
She kissed his forehead.

The Indian woman picks
at her toes with her fingers,
her forehead is lined,
her black greying hair
is tied behind her head
in a knot of cloth.

Yiska laughs.
You certainly gave
the nurses a joint heart attack
last week
with your hanging attempt
in the boghouse.

Dark place at the time,
Naaman says.

She nods.
Like headless chicken
they were, she says.
I tried to OD,
but I was found too soon,
she adds.

The kid at the window
turns round.
He pokes his tongue out
at them both.
Naaman had bopped him
the other day
when he pinched
Yiska's arm.
Short memory, I guess,
Naaman thinks.

The big day nurse
comes in with morning
teas and coffees,
his broad smile
and jovial voice
brighten the day.

Yiska's hand lies
on Naaman's thigh,
he hopes
it will never leave,
but always stay.

Anne rubbed the stump
of her amputated leg.

She sat in her wheelchair.

I sat opposite
wondering what
it must be like
to have one leg.

Pull your skirt down,
the nursing nun said,
it's indecent
to show off
your leg like that.

Anne stared at the nun.

My leg hurts,
she said,
rubbing it,
helps it.

Where does it hurt?
the nun asked.

Everywhere
even the toes hurt,
Anne said grumpily.

The leg
has been amputated,
so how can it hurt?
the nun said,
now pull the skirt
over the stump,
Benedict doesn't
want to see
your stump.

I didn't mind,
but I said nothing;
I looked at the nun's
black habit,
her thin features,
her pointed nose,
thin lips.

Anne pulled the skirt
over her stump slowly.

It's my stump,
I should be able
to show it
to whom ever I want,
anyway, Benny likes
gawking at my stump,
he does it
all the **** time.

The nun gazed
at Anne in silence;
then at me.

Your manners
need to be brought
into line, young lady,
if you
were at my old school,
you would learn manners
or else.

Anne sat back
in her wheelchair.

But I’m not
at your old school,
I’m in a nursing home
after the butcher’s job
the doctors did
on my leg,
she said.

The nun's features stiffened.

I looked at Anne
and her tilted head
and the hidden stump.

There are many
complaints about you,
the nun said,
from other children
and the other
sister nuns;
we will report you
to the nursing home
authorities,
the nun said.

Anne said nothing,
but looked
at the swings
where other children
played.

I sat looking
at the nun,
her hands hidden
in the pockets
of her habit.

She walked off stiffly
across the green grass.

How about her,
Kid, huh?  

I gazed
at the walking off nun.

Guess she was
a bit annoyed,  
I said.

So what, Kid,
who gives a cat's ***
what they think or say?

I shrugged.

Push me to the beach,
she said,
get me away
from these penguins, Kid,
off to the sea.

So I pushed
the wheelchair down
the avenue of trees,
anything for Anne,
anything to please.

Anne sat in the wheelchair
in the huge back garden
of the nursing home.
The stump of her leg ached,

the one good leg rested
on the footrest. She rubbed
the stump as if this might
ease the aching. She’d get

Skinny Kid to push her out
of the back gate when she saw
him, he was one of the few
kids who seemed to like her,

and often did things for her
where others wouldn’t.  
The little girl named Sadd
was like a fairy: thin, gaunt

looking, whose shoulder blades
stuck out like small wings.
She was on one of the swings
being pushed by one of the

nursing nuns. Where was
Skinny Kid? she mused. His sister
was over by the slide going up
and sliding down. The boy called

Malcolm was hiding in and out
of the avenue of trees playing
war games with some other boy
with a snotty nose. She wheeled

herself along the stony path.
How’s your leg? a girl with burn
scars on her arms and shoulders asked.
Why don’t you ask the fecking leg,

Anne replied roughly. The girl stared
at the impression of the stump just
under Anne’s dress. I’ll tell Sister
you swore, the girl said. Go kiss your

****, Anne said. The girl ran off and
Anne wheeled herself a little more
along the path. Then she spotted him,
Skinny Kid, coming out of the French

windows at the back of the nursing home.
Hey, Kid, she bellowed, over here.
Benedict walked over to where Anne
was sitting, her hands on the wheels

of the chair.  What did you want?
he asked. Push me out the back gate,
she said, I can’t stick being out here
with all theses kids. Ok, he said and

pushed her along the path, between
the avenues of trees to the back gate.
Where are we going? he asked as they
reached the gate and he opened it up

and pushed her through. Along by
the beach, I need the sea air, need
to fill my lungs with it, she said.
He pushed her along, his arms

feeling her weight, his legs like
small pistons. Thanks, she said,
for helping me in and out of the
bath the other night. That’s ok,

he said, recalling her calling him
into the bathroom the other night,
she standing on her one leg by the
bath in a white towel. Help me in

Kid, she had said, I don’t want
one of those nuns touching me while
I bath. He had helped her in trying
to avoid looking at her naked body

as she put her leg over then he had
to ease her down making sure the
stump didn’t bang against the bath rim.
He closed his eyes, having caught a

glimpse of the stump on its way into
the water. He pushed the wheelchair
along the smooth path, avoiding the
other people, trying to hear her mouthed

instructions, watching the top of her
dark haired head. She had said he had
to wash her back in the bath as she
couldn’t reach and he did it softly not

wanting to scratch her or such. Harder
than that, Kid, she had said, I want to
feel the skin rubbed not fecking tickled.
So he scrubbed harder, looking at her

neck and her damp hair.  Hey, Kid,
she said breaking into his thoughts,
got any money on you? I’ve  got half
a crown, he said. Then buy us two ice

creams, Kid, over there, the guy who
looks Italian in that van. So he pushed
her over to the van and bought two
ice creams with strawberry sauce and

he sat on the wall with her parked
beside him licking their ice creams
in silence except for the sound of gulls
and the sea going in and out pushing

the waves up the shore, she watching
the Kid, his tongue white with ice-cream,
his eyes bright as summer. Her stump
ached still; she’d get the Kid to rub it after

the ice creams; feel his hands on her skin,
as she sometimes dreamt, he did in her dreams.

Sonya likes
Paris streets
dark cafés

black coffees
cigarettes
those French ones

she likes nights
with wet streets
like oil slicks

those artists
selling cheap
second hand

Picassos
or such like
but mostly

she likes ***
between sheets
in back street

hotel rooms
with windows
with shutters

listening
to a cheap
transistor

radio
some French dame
singing of

a lost love
as she feels
Benedict

kiss each inch
of her flesh
his warm lips

and wet tongue
slide along
her soft groove

the outline
shadowy
of his ****

rise and fall
as they ride
the wild waves

of hot ***
between sheets
Sonya loves

Paris streets.

How do I look in this dress?
Walt’s wife asked him as she
Did a twirl in the bedroom.
Yeah, fine, Walt slowly replied.

But you’re not even looking at
Me, she said. Walt turned his
Head from the small TV screen
And gazed at her. Yeah, you look

Fine. It’s not too short is it? She
Asked. No, not too short, Walt
Said, his eyes looking at the TV
Screen once more as the ballgame

Hotted up. How about my ***,
Does it look ok? Sure, said Walt.
Sure, what? She asked, my ***
Is too big in this? Is that what

You’re saying? Yeah, Walt replied,
His eyes focusing on the pass of
Ball. How can you be so insensitive.
Why you’re not even looking at me.

DOES MY *** LOOK BIG IN THIS?
She bellowed. Walt turned around
And at stared at his wife sticking out
Her ***. No, no, he said, just right

Honey, the best *** I’ve seen today.
What other *** have you seen today,
Then? She said. Walt sighed, he’d
Missed a good hit. What do you

Want to know now? Walt asked.
Whose *** you seen today? She said.
I haven’t seen any ***, Walt replied.
He studied his wife as she twirled

Again. That’s a bit short isn’t it, Walt
Said, and a bit tight. Makes your ***
Look like two piglets under canvas
Fighting to get out. A hairbrush flew

Across the room missing Walt’s head
As his wife stormed into the bathroom
And slammed the door. That’s ok Honey,
That’s what we ******* husband’s are for.

You walked with Janice
to Baldwin’s the Herbalist

at the corner of Elephant
and Walworth Road

she wore her blue patterned dress
and red beret

and white socks
and red sandals

and in her small purse
she had money

her gran gave her
to buy sarsaparilla

in a half pint glass
and you

in your cowboy shirt
and jeans and plimsolls

with your holster
and six shooter

in the belt
around your waist

and clutching money
your mother’d given you

for doing a few chores
Gran would never let me

go on my own
Janice said

but when I said
you were going

Gran said all right
but no sweets

they rot your teeth
I like the liquorice sticks

you can buy there
you said

they make your teeth white
or so my mum said

Janice looked at your gun
in the holster

and said
you can protect me

from outlaws with your gun
sure

you replied
she smelt of lavender

and toothpaste from tins
and she moved nearer to you

and her arm touched yours
as you walked along

here we are
she said

and opened the door of Baldwin’s
and you both went in

and went to the counter
and asked the man

for two half pints
of sarsaparilla

and when he poured them
and you each paid him

you stood by the window
with your glasses

and sipped
and looked

at the passing traffic
and people

you feeling like Wyatt Earp
in the saloon

and Janice looking out
as if she feared

outlaws would be coming
pretty soon.

Fay sat with Benedict
on the grass outside
Banks House. He wore
his faded blue jeans,

white tee shirt; she
wore a lemon dress
(one he liked) with
small white flowers.

It was warm, a summery
sun was in the sky,
trains moved over
the railway bridge

just over the way.
She talked of a nun
at her school, who
was strict and carried

a ruler around to hit
the hands of girls who
spoke out of turn.
Benedict sat cleaning up

his six-shooter toy gun,
wiping his handkerchief
over the silvery barrel.
Girls live in fear of her,

Fay said, she creeps behind
them and pokes her
finger into their flesh.
Have a teacher at my school

who pokes with a pencil,
Benedict said, digs it right in,
especially when he’s making
a point about something.

Fay’s eyes caught the sun’s light;
he thought he could see angel’s
playing there. She caught me
over my knuckles last week, Fay said.

Did you tell your parents? he asked.
God no, she said. Daddy would
have beaten me for sure; upsetting
nuns and such. O, he said, he loved

the way her fair hair shone in sunlight,
the way she moved her lips to form words.
He put his gun back in the holster
(the one his old man had given him)

around his shoulder. She spoke of
the mass and the priest who came.
Benedict didn’t know what the heck
the mass was, but he just listened to

her talk, watched her lips make words
like some potter makes bowls.
He studied her hands as she spoke,
how they gestured along with the words;

small hands, thin fingers. He couldn’t
understand how anyone could want
to slam a ruler over such thin knuckles.
She spoke of the Host and that it was Jesus

in the form of bread. He was stumped,
but listened on, taking in her every word,
the sound of the word, the way she
shaped it, the way her tongue seemed

to hold then throw out the word.
Then she stopped and pulled off her
yellow cardigan because of the heat.
He saw on her upper arm, a fading

green bruise, like damaged fruit gone off.
She put the cardigan on the grass,
and talked on about confessions,
about the confessional, how dark it was,

how the priest was hardly
visible through the metal mesh.
Benedict half listened; too concerned
about her bruised fruit flesh.

Ingrid climbed over
the metal fence
by Banks House

and onto the grass
her mother's shouting
in her ears

her father's hand
fresh upon the flesh
of her thigh stinging

the early morning sun
came over
the flats nearby

the grey clouds
promising rain
she climbed over

another metal fence
and crossed over
into Jail park

to ride the swings
or slide
or just sit

by the sandpit
and muse
and wait

Benedict would come soon
or so he said
the night before

as he walked her
to her door
hearing her parents

rowing
the park was almost deserted
a few kids

in the sandpit
one on the slide
she sat on one

of the swings
and pushed off
from the ground

her thigh stinging
as she moved away
reaching for the sky

her feet in the air
trying to get there
she leaned forward

then back
to get herself higher
pushing herself

up and up
feeling the air
in her face

in her hair
thinking of how
her sister got away

with things but she
did not
she was punished

for little things
while she could stay
out late

or come home drunk
and back chat and lie
but she had only

to make a mistake
or say a wrong word
or look the wrong way

and it was slap
or whack as it
was today

her feet reached up
her black battered shoes
seemingly touching

the sky
she looked around
on the ground

at the trees
or kids
feeling free

to think
and breathe
and be

but still no Benedict
in sight
no sign of him

since last night
she missed him
and needed him today

someone to listen
to what had happened
to her today

she slowed down
the swing
put her feet

as brakes
to come to a halt
and sit and stare

then she heard
his voice
Benedict had come

cowboy hat
and jeans
and 6 shooter gun

and that broad smile
and he sat on a swing
beside her

and she told him
about the morning
and the slap

and thump
and whack
he listened

and saddened
and took her hand
and said

let's go find our horses
and ride to the place
that cowboys go

in that far away land
and she nodded
and said

we can have a cabin
with curtains
and a wooden bed

and table and chairs
and land to have
as far as the eye

could see
sure
he said

where ever we are
your parents
won't be.

You took the dog for a walk
across the grass out of your

auntie’s sight and wandered
about the barracks looking

through window by standing
on steps or pulling yourself

up by fingertips on windowsills
peering through the windows

spying on the regiment for
some inward game and the

dog sat watching you wagging
its tail its pink tongue hanging

out in the hot summer weather
and once you and the dog crawled

under a gate and you pulled
yourself up by the fingertips

on a windowsill and saw through
an open window soldiers

sitting at desks before a large
blackboard being talked to by

a NCO and who spotting you
bellowed out WHO THE ****'S

THAT! and you jumped down
and ran the dog beating you to

the gate and under as you being
less agile got stuck as the NCO

came running up and pulled you
out and up and said Right Sonny

I suggest you get yourself back
to barracks before I tell your

parents what a bad lad you've
been and then he opened the gate

and off you ran the dog running
beside you its tongue out in a self

satisfied way and you thinking what
a bad end to a could have been fun day.

Miss Ashdown
faced the blackboard
and chalked leaves
and buds and stems

her fat behind waddled
as she moved
from side to side
and Carmody said

if you peep through
the small hole
in the toilets
you can see

into the girl’s cubicle
and see their *******
you stared
at the teacher’s behind

half listening
to Carmody’s yak
she moved the chalk
along the board

a stem appeared in green
her plump arm supported
her chubby hand and fingers
Carmody went on and on

about what he saw
in whispering voice
now
Miss Ashdown said

turning around
her ******* bulging
behind her purple dress
here I have drawn the stem

of a flower and here
she said
pointing to the blackboard
is the bud and here is the stem  

and so she went on
pointing out each aspect
of the nature study plants
she’d drawn

see her down the front
with her pink bow
and ginger hair?
Carmody asked

you nodded
to his whispering voice
your eyes on the girl
at the front desk

next to Helen
she wears blue *******
Carmody informed
saw them this morning

you saw the girl
raise a hand to ask
questions about the plants
or to be excused to urinate

her blue cardigan covered arm
lifted the small hand
waving in the air
and here

Miss Ashdown said
is the root layout
see how its spreads
to gather food

and moisture
to the plant
she ignored
the raised hand

and the blue cardiganed arm
went down and out of view
and her over there
Carmody said

by the chart of trees
she wears white
you moved away slightly
from Carmody’s head

remembering
some one had said
that morning
he had fleas.