Jane had climbed
the Downs with you

and had hardly spoken
on the tiring climb

along the dried up tracks
on the way up

and then at the top
standing beside you

she stared out across
the countryside

and said
you can see

where I live from here
and she pointed out

to the church down beneath
and you said

yes
and took in the church

and the house
where she lived

with the parson
and his wife

and tried to pick out
which bedroom was hers

and she said
I like it up here

away from the crowds
and nearer to God

and you studied her profile
and her hair

and the way she stood there
in that summer dress

and sandals
and with that youthfulness

and you wanted suddenly
to kiss her

and embrace her
but you didn’t

you just stood
and studied her profile

and moving closer
you reached out

your hand
and touched hers

and her hand was warm
and as you squeezed it gently

you sensed the pulse of life
run through

and the moment
seemed to explode

in your head
in a myriad

of colours and sounds
and you rubbed your thumb

along her wrist
checking the pulse

the life
wanting her

to be the one
and pointing upward

she said breaking through
your dream

look at the colour
of that sky

and feel the warmth
of sun.

When Christine heard
that he'd tried
to hang himself
in the men's crapper

desperation bells
began to ring
inside her head
then she saw him

on the locked ward
sans laces
or belts
or anything

he may use
to repeat
the performance
and he sat

in the big chair
his eyes dull
and his hair untidy
and with that loose hanging

dressing gown
minus belt
and in pyjamas
like some

Auschwitz guy
and she said
what the ****
you in here for?

sitting in the armchair
next to him
broken heart
broken love

lost love
soul crashing
through all gears
to get back

to base
who knows?
he said
like that huh?

join the club
for what it's worth
we're all ****** up here
like driftwood

on a lonely beach
on some deserted island
she said
he gazed at her

disinterestedly
as if a gnat
had landed
on his hand

they lock
the doors here?
sure do
all the time

what about visitors?
once a week
Sundays
he looked at her

at her dark
long straggly hair
her dull eyes
why you here?

he said
some ****
left me
at the altar

all dressed up
like some nun
in white
she said

he must have been
mad to have left you
anywhere
he said

well he must be
because he did
opposite
an Indian woman

sat crossed legged
picking
at her toes
a red spot

on her forehead
dressed
in long gowns
of bright colours

a plump woman
walked by smoking
eyeing them
suspiciously

foul mouthing
the nurse going by
so how long
you been here?

he asked
week or so
how long you staying?
until they say

I can leave
when will that be?
when they think
I’m better

or cured
or able to be
balanced again
when will that be?

how the ****
do I know
she said
sorry

about the language
anger gets
to my tongue
before I do

you're not going
to hang yourself
again are you?
she asked

don't know
who I am any more
don't know jackshit
about myself

whoever myself is
she nodded
looked at his
handed in slippers

the scar
on his left wrist
not your first time then?
she said

touching the scar
guess not  
he said
welcome to Purgatory

she said
he sensed her finger
on his scar
the female touch

he wanted something
whatever it was
something
to hold on to

O
so very much.

She would have bathed
a hundred times
to have washed him out.

Now she dries
her red hair
with a white towel
sitting on the edge
of the white bath.

She will never
get used to it,
never quite come
to accept the duties
of a *****,
not take it
as a fact of her life,
****** more often
than any wife.

But he she loathes,
his way,
his demands,
that touch of his,
the earthly smell
and tone of voice.

She's washed
and washed her hair,
and rinsed it through,
to be rid of him,
but still he's there
in her red long hair.

He's just another punter,
the Mistress says,
just another gentleman
to please and have his way,
no different than the others,
so just lay there,
shut your eyes and obey.

She never thought
she'd end up a *****,
never thought she'd end
up this way,
being the plaything
of men,
just a relief machine,
a good lay.

She wonders,
drying her long red hair,
what her parents would say,
seeing her here,
doing what she does,
things she has to perform,
sometimes quite *****,
often beyond the norm.

She's dry now,
the hair brushed
and her body clean,
time to prepare,
tie back her hair,
simple cloth to cover
what'll soon be bare,
lying there.

She sighs,
who'd be a *****?
she says,
knock knock,
another one's come,
another at the door.

O’Brien took
the comic
Sutcliffe was holding
and said

what the ****
you got here Sutcliffe?
give it back O’Brien
he went to ******

back the comic
O’Brien held it away
hey Davies
see what Sutcliffe’s

got inside
the comic cover
and he showed Davies
the magazine

of women
in all states
of undress
look at the **** on her

Davies said
give it back
Sutcliffe said
O’Brien showed you

the centre fold
of some woman
posing in a position
you thought

most uncomfortable
come on O’Brien
give it to me
in case a prefect sees it

and we're hauled
in front of Thompson
and get caned
O’Brien scanned

through more pages
with Davies looking
over his shoulder
where did you get

this magazine from Sutcliffe?
found it
he said
where?

Davies asked
somewhere
Sutcliffe muttered
where somewhere?

O’Brien said
Sutcliffe looked at you
then around
the playground

of the school
under my old man's shoes
in the cupboard
he said quietly

you looked at O’Brien
gaping at the magazine
his eyes peering intently
look at her Davies

fancy waking up
with her beside you huh?
Davies grinned
and pulled the page

to show you
the woman had a mole
on her left breast
you noticed

Sutcliffe snatched back
the magazine
and pulled
the comic cover

back in place
Davies laughed
and O’Brien said
you're a *****

young man Sutcliffe
you enjoyed the look
Sutcliffe said
as he stuffed

the comic into
his inside
coat pocket
and buttoned it up

any more under
your old man's shoes?
O’Brien asked
no

Sutcliffe said
just that one
shame
Davies said

you noticed
Mr Austin’s
sports car drive
into the playground

his pockmarked face
staring at you
from his car seat
Austin’s arrived

Sutcliffe said
you all watched
as he parked his car
then looked away

as he made his way
towards you all
the sky was grey
the start of Fall.

Christina sat at the dressing table
to brush her hair, the hairbrush
her aunt had given her, in her hand.
She was still in her nightgown,

her school uniform
was on a chair by the bed,
the bed still unmade.
She looked at her features,

her hair a mess, her eyes
still had sleep in them.
She brushed her hair slowly,
a hundred times, her mother said,

does it best. She dragged the brush
through, pulling through the knots
at the ends. She thought on Benedict,
her friend's brother, the boy she

had become smitten by. She wondered
if she'd see him today; unless she
waited by the school fence and peered
through when his school bus arrived

and he descended and went by the fence
into his playground, she might not.
Maybe if it was fine and they were
permitted to go out on the sports field

she would. They'd met the first time there,
after his sister had told him that
Christina liked him. Thinking about
him now, made her feel excited, made

her insides turn over, not nastily, but
weirdly, as if fingers stirred inside of her.
She had dreamed of him the night before,
dreamed he had sat at the end of her bed,

and she had wanted him to enter, but
he just sat there talking. She stopped
brushing her hair and put the brush down
on the dressing table. They had kissed.

Hard to find a place at school where
they could be alone. They had found
a few moments in the gym during recess
a week ago, just them, the smell of

sweating bodies, gym shoes and feet.
They had their ears pricked for any
sounds, but then kissed. Lips on lips.
His tongue met hers, touched, strange

sensation that, she murmured to herself
sitting gazing at her reflection in the mirror,
as if she'd touched a live wire, it tingled,
rather made her feel open, wide open as

if someone had pressed something within.
She daren't tell or ask her mother even
if her mother wasn't in one of her low moods.
Only when she menstruated the first time

did she mention to her mother about her body.
Oh you'll get use to it, her mother said,
the curse women have to put up with.
Sometimes in bed or when she got out

of the bath, she would put her arms about
her body and pretend it was Benedict,
imagined it was he doing the caressing
and holding and touching. Time to get

ready for school, she thought, taking out
of the photo of Benedict out of the drawer
and kissing it. He gave it to her after she
had given him one of herself. Not a good one,

she had to sneak one out of the photo box
her parents wouldn't miss. Benedict liked it,
said he kept it somewhere safe. His was
good, her damp lips had left an impression.

She wiped it off and held it against her *******.
She sighed. At night she kept the photo under
her pillow and took it out to kiss before
going off to sleep. She put the photo away

again and stood up. Time to get dress
and get down for breakfast before her
mother bawled out up the stairs to her.
Out of the window she could see blue

skies, a sun was rising. Might see
Benedict after all, she said, taking
off her nightgown, and letting it slip
to the floor. Oh to see him always,
and see him more and more and more.

Elle sits in mid act
of dressing. The floor
is ******* buttocks,
scrawny ****, he had
said some short while

ago. Sensations still
there, stirred up, half
fulfilled, wanting more
on her part. But he’s
gone off to smoke or

bath or set paint to his
canvas or paper. She
knows he likes his red
heads, the real thing,
not a dyed for the show

of it type. ***** gives
the game away, he’d say,
laughing, pointing. He’s a
weird type even if he
sets well paint to art.

To complete the act of
dressing, forget the ******
aspect, dress and be off.
Mother used to say, save
your virginity like a precious

pearl, don’t throw before
swine and give away after
a good meal and too much
wine. Mother, Elle thinks,
knew little of *** except

the one act from which I
came, then closed up shop
and set her legs to be
crossed when men were on
the scene. She puts on her slip

and necklace, the one he gave
her, the one with red stones.
He has painted her a number
of times, brushed her onto
canvas, eased her down with

artistic determination. Sold
to others to peer at, to lust
after, to have framed, placed
on some cold wall. She sits
half-dressed, musing, slow

******* the red stones, like
drops of blood. He’ll not want
her that time of month, not
with her pains and messy flood.

Yehudit sat on the grass by the pond Benny sat beside her she was looking at the ducks and dragonflies hovering and taking off in a long flight he was thinking of the death of Marilyn Monroe announced on the radio that morning and how he had kissed the photograph he had of her on his wall a small photo he had got through some club it was in black and white and he adored looking at her standing there cant believe shes dead Benny said who? whos dead? Yehudit asked looking around at him Marilyn Monroe on the radio news this morning he said how did she die? they think suicide overdose or something he said she looked away why did she do that? she asked no idea he said Yehudit lay back on the grass put her hands behind her head come lay beside me for a while she said he lay back beside her then turned to face her sideways on he took in her eye looking up at the blue sky blue as blue on blue he thought the flush of her cheek her nose her lips parted just so as to see teeth her ear covered by her brown hair she turned towards him so that both eyes were on him now blue on hazel we can if you want to she said studying him intensely can we? if you want to she said should we? he said and thought of the first time that time in the school gym once midday when the gym was empty and theyd gone in for a quick kiss and well one thing led to another and even though they were risking it they did and even though she had tried to be quiet she let out the moans under her breath and he momentarily on high had uttered yes yes yes and they had only just rearranged clothing when a teacher came in and said you ought not to be in here what were you doing? and Benny said showing her my press-ups and the teacher said they best leave and so they did Yehudit put her hand on his cheek and rubbed it gently and said of course we must if Marilyn can go like that we must take each given moment we have to fulfil our lives and he thought of Marilyn lying on her bed dead and the beauty still there but the spirit fled he leaned in and kissed Yehudit on the lips and she touched him on his thigh and their lips sealed and tongues engaged and moved and his hand felt along her thigh moving it up and down slowly and she closed her eyes and moved towards him and he felt upwards and upwards and touched and began to unbutton then voices came male voices from over the way by the pond-lake Yehudit called it- they broke apart looked around and sat up two men appeared with fishing gear over their shoulders one with a cap the other older balding pushing their way through the bushes on the other side engaged in conversation Yehudit and Benny made their way into the tall grass and lay flat looking through at the approaching men who stood opposite sorting out their fishing gear what they here for? Yehudit asked fishing Benny said I know that but why here why our lake? maybe they dont know its our lake Benny said they watched the two men unload and unpack their rods and seats and nets and then sit down typical Yehudit said now what? Benny reached through the grass and touched her hand we can touch and feel he said she felt his hand in her hand his fingers wrap around hers she moved through the grass and kissed his cheek can they see us? she asked shouldnt think so Benny said we are in the tall grass she turned him around to face her she breathed on him warm and **** and he kissed her and lay his hand on her leg then her high thigh she sighed and breathed warmly out I could have you now she said he lay back taking her in her eyes soft blue her parted lips her tongue risky Benny said what if they see movement of grass from over there? her hands began to unbutton his jeans and search within he stiffened looked at her lips her eyes he moved his hand moved upwards and felt her and closed his eyes cast it further a voice said maybe get something then another voice said do my best caught a good one here last week Yehudit held and rubbed Benny said shall we find some other place? Yehudit released and withdrew her hand why and where? too risky here cant focus he said she buttoned him up and lay on her back he lay beside her the sky was a bright blue birds flew overhead a dragonfly swept over the tall grass a butterfly swooped by voices again loud and deep nearly had one then be patient takes time the other replied Yehudit moved in the tall grass Benny watched as she took off her underwear and lay there got to be patient the man said she said softly Benny moved to her and next to her and felt her and unbuttoned and nearly there one mans voice said bit deeper the other said and laughed Yehudit sighed a shudder a movement an ease a bird flew off over the pond a blackbird sang got a bite a man said pull it slow now the other said Yehudits hands were on Bennys **** Bennys hands were holding her waist and bring it in now the man said steady steady Benny kissed her lips her cheek her eyes Yehudit saw birds in flight a woodpecker peck a duck quacked Benny opened his eyes and o a mouth and rode through a storm she lay there watching a rook in flight over head she was alive and Marilyn was dead.

Two monks pick fruit
from bushes
in the abbey gardens,

the early
afternoon sun
blesses

their tonsured heads,
a black beaded rosary
hangs

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

of the choir stalls
with beeswax
and a yellow duster;

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

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

head to one side,
sups his soup
in the refectory

off the old
French spoon,
listening to the reader

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

Francis sits down at the bench and begins his meal.
The other monks eat without thought other than
What the reading monk on his high stool reads out.
Some book on Cromwell, halfway through, the reader’s
Tone dry and at an even pace. Francis reflects on the
Preparation of the meal. The gathering of vegetables
From the garden, the preparing of the meat, the soup,
The dessert and all with little help save what Brother
Benedict brought with time and skill. Francis studies
Each monk in turn, his eyes sweeping the refectory,
The way this one holds his fork, that one shovels in
Without thought or care, another picking through his
Meal like some old hobo through a garbage heap.
The reader pauses to sip water. The sound of cutlery
On plates, the birds outside the tall windows of the
Refectory in song, the odd slurp or cough, a sneeze.
The reader reads on, Cromwell brought to life, his
Deeds both good and bad, high and low. Francis brings
His spoon to his lips, sips the soup, thick and dark.
One of the young monks pushing round the trolley
With meals for the next course, stops and stares at
The crucifix on the wall above the abbot’s head,
Thinks on the Last Supper with the sipping of blood
And wine and the breaking of both body and bread.

Janice of red beret fame
with fair hair
to her shoulders
and dressed slightly better

than the rest
of there about
invited you
(with your mother’s

permission
and her gran’s invitation)
to tea after school
in the upstairs apartment

not far away
what did you want
for eats and drink?
Janice asked

bread and jam
you replied
bread and jam?
she repeated

as if you’d asked
for caviar on toast
no you must
have more than that

she said
Gran what’s for eats?
and her gran
came into the lounge

where the cosy furniture
was set out in place
neat and tidy
with a canary

in a cage
on a stand
and her gran related
a list of things

you could have
far exceeding
what you usually
had at home

cheese and cress
sandwiches
you said
please added on

as an afterthought
and Janice
had the same
to be like you

and her gran went off
and Janice said
she likes you
says you have more breeding

than some round here
o
you said
thanks

and you pushed
your hand
through your hair
and pulled

your school jumper
in place
and tightened
the tie

we’re going
to the fairground Saturday
will you come too?
you hesitated

and took in
her fair hair
and her fine features
and prim gaze

I’ll have to see
what my mum says
you uttered
o she won’t mind

Gran’s already
mentioned it I think
Janice said
well yes then

you said
I’d like that
she smiled
and spoke

of learning French
at school
and the teacher
who took her

for that and history
she’s a dear
and positively a beauty
I’ve got Ashdown

and she’s plump
and has an ****
like a hippo
you said

Janice choked
and sputtered
with laughter
all at the same time

that’s so rude
she said
putting her small hand
to her mouth

gosh don’t let Gran
hear to speak like that
or you’ll be off
her good boy list

as swift as lightening
you sat bemused
when her gran came in
with two plates

of sandwiches
what’s so funny?
she asked
putting the plates

on the table
o nothing much
Janice said
Benedict told me

a little joke
o well as long
as it wasn’t rude
Gran said

o no
Janice said
and looked at you
o no

you muttered
just a innocent joke
from school
her gran went off

to get the drinks
if Gran heard me
say thinks like that
she’d tan my backside

and no mistake
Janice took a bite
of her sandwich
and you ate yours

listening to the canary
sing and the bell it
rung inside the cage
and her gran singing

from the kitchen
in a soprano voice
and you took in
Janice’s light blue eyes

wherein you thought
but did not say
some good part
of beauty lies.

Lydia
pale and thin
lanky hair

lightish brown
walks with me
to see hot

steam engines
at Kings Cross
train station

her old man
grudgingly
said she could

go with me
we get on
a bus there

sitting on
a side seat
some big guy

stares at us
his deep eyes
drinks us in

then gawks at
Lydia
she blushes

looks away
I give him
my John Wayne

cowboy stare
he looks back
then away

we get off
at our stop
at Kings Cross

smell of steam
sound of trains
huff and puff

and people
rushing by
on to trains

off of trains
we both sit
on a seat

watching this
unfolding
train drama

with porters
with trolleys
and luggage

and parcels
passengers
going by

rich and poor
Lydia
beside me

wanting this
as I do
the grey smoke

rising high
to the roof
turning blue.

You imagine
she still lies there,
still having made love
has that satisfied look,

that we did it
once more gaze.
All gone now,
all in former days.

The house has long
been sold, others
live there now;
the bed long gone,

gone for scrap
or firewood,
at least that
wooden frame.

You think on
that peasant way she had,
the lifting up
of legs and thighs,

the brightening up
of those liquid eyes,
the play of smile
upon her lips,

then love making over
and resting side by side,
that sense of
we did it again,

a little adolescent pride.
Death had her marked out
even then you guess,
cancer making plans

of conquest,
ticking time,
the clocks all set,
an all off certain bet.

And yet,
still you think her there,
laying abed,
eyes bright,

legs and thighs lifted,
the lips pursed
to kiss,
all love talent gifted.

Gone now,
some resting place
marked and squared off
for some to see,

flowers bought and laid,
attention and respect paid;
but where she's rested
you don't know,

no last farewell,
no last kiss
nor given
nor made, you're afraid.

I might have known
said Dotty
I might have known

you were just like
all the rest of men
but

said Brintskin
don’t you but me
you slime snake

Mother always said
men weren’t
to be trusted

and she was right
I should have listened to her
instead going off with men

at such a young age
but hang on there
Brintskin said

I was getting a lift
in a woman’s car
after a hard day’s work

sure
Dotty said
sure you were

I know women
and I know men
and what happens

when they get together
and what did she want huh?  
want to show you her etchings?

no it wasn’t like that at all
she just asked
did I want a lift home

after work and I said yes
Brintskin said
I bet you did

I bet you couldn’t
get that word yes out
quick enough

why I bet she had her ******* off
before you could blink an eye
and as usual

you had to get
caught out didn’t you
and Dotty paused

for a moment
to pour a drink
and sip it

all the while
glaring at Brintskin
and he stared at her

as if she’d changed
into a bullfrog
and then she sighed

and said
well what happened?
nothing happened Sweetie

Brintskin replied
she just offered me
a lift home in her car

and I said yes please
and so she gave me a lift home
Dotty sat down

in the armchair
and crossed her legs
and Brintskin studied her thighs

as the skirt rose up
as she sat down
and Dotty said

ok so maybe I believe you
maybe what you say is true
and I am just getting

the wrong end
of the stick
you sure are

Brintskin said
following the line
of his vision

as far as his eyes
could go
and caught a glimpse

of ***** line
whiter than snow.

Your mother had given you
a few coins to buy sweets

and on the way you met Fay
and you said

do you want to come
and buy some sweets?

and she said
I haven’t any money

and you said
you can share mine

if you tell me what you like
but she said

my father wouldn’t like it
if I had sweets he says

they rot your teeth
but she walked to the shop with you

thinking silently to herself
and outside the shop

you said
are you sure?

she nodded and stood outside
while you went in

and bought sweets
when you came out

she was waiting there
her eyes gazing at you

her tongue running over
her lips

you showed her
what you’d bought

and her eyes widened
here take one

you said
your dad won’t know

if you don’t tell him
she hesitated

her fingers lingering
over the bag of sweets

but what if he sees me
or smells them

on my breath?
she said fear entering her eyes

her hands falling at her sides
you put out a hand

and touched hers
it’s only a sweet

it’s not as if
you’re having a drag of a smoke

or sipping beer
she nodded and smiled a little

best not
she said

if he finds out
he’ll get angry with me

for eating sweets and lying
and you remembered

the bruises you’d seen
on her arms and thighs

that time
and you sighed thinking

as if eating sweets
was a big deal or a crime.

I wear
your grey
woollen mittens,
the ones

you can make
into gloves
by pulling over
the fingers

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

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

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

over much;
your hands
and fingers
seeking shelter

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

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

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

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

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

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

neat and touching.
I wish they were you.

It’s not the sort of house
You’d want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn’t leave for days.

She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.

There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
How to Dress for the Occasion.

We found the first child
Drowned in a bath, the hair
Was floating there on the
Water’s skin.  Someone sort
Of sobbed or maybe they
Didn’t, seemed as though
They had. The second child
Was lying beneath a blanket
Where they’d suffocated.

That’s where the main smell
Came from. She breathed in
And smelt pine air freshener
That Caser used in his house,
She wanted to smoke, pull
Out a cigarette and light up,
But didn’t. The third child,
Baby really, was stiff in a cot.

Unfed, unwashed, a token of
Neglect. Someone pulled back
Curtains, light broke through
Darkness, lit up the sad scene;
Another nearby let out a cry,
The under the breath kind.

She pushed her knees together
As if about to give birth to a
Different tale, her hands played
With the glass, a finger tapped
The side. The mother was found
In a darkened room, wrists slit,
OD’d days back, slouched in a
Chair, dressed in death and black.  

Had sleepless nights after, she
Said, ought to be used to, but
You never are, kind of gets
Under the radar. Caser looked
At her sitting there, her hair
Pulled in a bun, her eyes looking
Up at the Picasso print he’d bought.

She had told him at last. She had
Unburdened herself of the one
Last thing that she couldn’t tell
Him at the psychiatric sessions
They’d had at his in town clinic.

Never did like Picasso, she said,
Turning away, putting down the
Glass, as of nothing more to say.

Caser watched her as she got up,
Brushed down her dress, sighed
And walked down the hall, left
His apartment, victim of the Fall.

Ingrid sat next to you
on the school hired coach
to the Tower of London
sun poured

through the window
making you feel hotter
and Ingrid
who usually smelt

of dampness
smelt of oranges
fresh peeled  
her usual well worn

raincoat and cardigan
were gone
and she was clothed
in a creamy blouse

and green skirt
and off white socks
and plimsolls
(her shoes in

the shoe smith
being mended
she had said)
and you in  a grey

open neck shirt
and grey flannel
short trousers
( no jeans

the teacher said
the day before)
and once all the kids
were aboard

and the teachers
had counted heads
the coach took off
and the talking erupted

and voices filled the air
and laughter and chatter
and you looked by Ingrid
at the passing view

she looked out too
her hair you noticed
washed and combed
and on her lap

in a bag
her packed lunch
and she held
the bag tightly

and you noticed
her fingers
the nails bitten
but the ink stains gone

and she turned
and said how excited
she was and that
she'd never been

to the Tower before
and that her dad had said
she wouldn't have gone
if her mother hadn't paid

and moaning
about the cost
and don't we have enough
to pay what with

one thing and another
and she lowered
her voice
and whispered

that her dad had hit her
for wanting to go
and her mother too
for interfering

and she pulled up
her skirt and showed you
a bruise on her thigh
then she looked away

and was silent
and you thought
that if you saw him
you'd have pop him

one with your cap gun
(symbolic of course)
then she turned
and said not

to tell anyone
and you said
you wouldn't
and she smiled

and squeezed your hand
and you hoped
none of the boys about
saw her hand

but you were glad
she had and you felt
kind of grown up
with a girlfriend

of your own
like those in the films
you'd seen where
the cowboy gets his girl

in those usual boring bits
you tended to hate
but there again
you and she were

just good friends
and only eight.

Once you entered
Diddling’s small church
it cooled you both down
from the summer heat outside

Jane looked about her
she’d been here
many times before
but wanted to you show you

and let you feel
the coolness
and silence
and peacefulness

I came here first
as a child
she said
but more often at St Mary’s

at the other side
of the village
I wouldn’t have thought
any place could be

this quiet
you said
the church smelt
of flowers

and old plaster
some one had placed
a mixture of blooms
in the vase by the altar

she walked forward
her hand brushing
against the tops
of the wooden pews

on either side
one could get married here
she said
if you had few guests

and friends
you said
gazing at her dark hair
pulled tight

in a ponytail
tied with red ribbon
her light green dress
fitted loosely

her sandals held
her bare feet
maybe one wanted
few guests

maybe just a few witnesses
and the clergyman
she said softly
turning to look at you

her dark eyes
captured you
and held you fixed
for a few moments

one day perhaps
she said
doesn’t your father
come here?

you asked
occasionally if the need arises
she said
mostly he’s at

the other church
come and stand
at the front with me
she said

you walked towards her
watching her eyes
and her mouth
the lips slightly open  

you stood next to her
at the altar end
the light coming through
the high windows above

she smelt of lavender
you could breathe it in
your head swayed with it
imagine us here

she said
pretend it’s our
wedding day
and we are here

and the pastor
and a couple of people
as witnesses
she held your hand

in hers
her warm flesh
her thumb
on the back

of your hand
stroking slowly
would we sing hymns?
you asked

yes two
she said
closing her eyes
and we’ll pretend

the ***** played
at the start
and finish
she added

she sniffed the air
and plenty of flowers  
around us
and bridesmaids?

you said
she thought
in silence
for a few moments

yes two small girls
from the village
she said
her hand got warmer

the dampness
linked you
and who
will give you away?

you said
father of course
she said frowning
she opened her eyes

and looked at you
too many people
have come
she said

it crowds my mind
and dream
then let it just be us
and the parson

and two others
you said
she nodded and smiled
it’s good to pretend

and imagine
she said
maybe one day
it will be real

the sunlight played
and danced
upon the floor
at her feet

her thumb rubbed
deeper in to your skin  
and you both walked
down the aisle

in silence again
outside
came sound
of warm summer rain.

Miryam sits at the bar
sipping a Bacardi,
bumming a smoke
from a packet open
on the bar top.

Hear you went
to Fez today,
she says.

Yes, it was like
something out
of Bible times,
you say,
camels, donkeys,
people in head gear
and gowns and such.

I would have come,
she says,
but I was too
shagged out
after the night before.

You eye her,
the tight curly
red hair,
blue eyes,
red lips.

I made it ok,
you say.

Don't know how,
she says,
you left after I did.

And you didn't come in
the tent
for a goodnight
kiss or more,
she adds,
staring at you.

Thought moaning Minnie
would be back,
you say.

She didn't show
until hours after;
been having it off
with that ex-army guy
of yours.

So that’s where
he went,
you say,
taking a quick sip
of your wine.

I'd have stayed
if I'd known.

Miryam inhales deeply,
then exhales.

Where's Army boy now?
she asks.

No idea,
joined the navy
for all I care,
you say.

We could now
if you like,
she says.

Where?
You take in
her tight blouse,
tight skirt
with a slit
at the side,
showing thigh.

One of those
sand dunes,
they're deep enough
to hide us,
she says.

Now?
Why not?
What if someone
comes over
and sees us?
They see us.

Nothing new
in what we'll be doing.

She drains
her Bacardi,
puts the glass down
on the bar top.

Well?
Under
the Moroccan sun?  
Either you do
or you don't,
she says,
getting off
the bar stool,
showing more thigh,
slim legs, sandals.

You drain your wine,
and follow her
from the bar
of the base camp,
and down
between the tents
and onto the beach
towards the sand dunes.

She has a fine sway
of hips, you note
as she walks in front.

The sun warms you,
sand beneath
your feet, some one
plays a flute
from across the way,
a voice sings.

She finds
a deep sand dune,
and you both
get down inside,
she kisses
straight away,
lips to lips stuff,
tongues,
hands undoing,
and taking
stuff off,
her body drinking
in the sun.

You and the pecker,
ready to go,
and the guys
still singing
from the camp,
flute still playing,
and she smells
of sun oil
and Bacardi
and stale
cigarettes,
but its all go
no time
for regrets.

Having run across the field
to the river’s edge
she sat down on the grass
and he followed

out of breath
and sat beside her
she laughed
told you couldn’t catch me

Milka said
I can run like a gazelle
Naaman breathed in deep
Holding his groin

I gave you a head start
he said
I still won though
she said

pleased with herself
only just
he said
she lay back

on the grass
he watched her breathe
her chest rising
and falling slowly

she had her hands
over her stomach
her short fair hair
mixed with the green grass

she smiled
what are you looking
at me for?
I like looking at you

he said
why?
he looked at the river
because I do

must be a reason
she said
looking at him
with her dark eyes

I think of you
when I’m not with you
and so I need
to capture the image

of you for when
you’re not here
he said
do you think of me

all the time?
she asked
pretty much
he said

my brothers will think you
have gone soft
she said
he looked away

trees blew slightly
in the wind
the clouds were moving slowly
only with regards

to you
he said
he gazed at her
lying there

her legs raised
heels flat on the grass
her skirt showing
her thighs

I dream of you
she confessed
most nights
and pretend Teddy is you

and squeeze him tightly
near to me
so that he is right
against my *******

lucky Teddy
Naaman said smiling
taking in her lips
slightly parted

her teeth
just visible
poor Teddy
only has one ear now

and my mother
has sewn his arm on
many times
Milka said

Naaman lay down
on the grass
next to her
laying his hand

on her arm
feeling her pulse
her warmth
maybe you treat him

too roughly
Naaman said
she smiled
her lips spreading wide

well you’re not there
and he is a poor substitute
she said
I can’t be there

he said
your mother
seldom leaves the house
and if she is out

your father is there
or your brothers
besides you’re too young
for such things

what things?  
she asked
looking at him
trying to look serious

ask Teddy
he said
I’m 14
only 2 years

younger than you
she informed
I know
he said

your brother told me
when we were practising judo
last weekend
does he know you see me?

he knows I take you out
but he thinks I do so out of pity
because I feel sorry for you
she laughed

putting her hands
over her mouth
to stop the loudness
of her laughter

he thinks that?
Naaman nodded
what’s he think we do
pick flowers and watch butterflies?

he thinks we go see
the peacocks
he said
we do

she said
but not this
not what we did
last Sunday

Naaman added
we just kissed
nothing else
she said

more than he thinks
or your mother
he said
she looked at the river

the water flowing slow
best then
she said softly
they don’t know.

Afternoon sun touched the cloister garth. The office of None had just completed. Sister Teresa walked slowly down the cloister from the church, letting her failing eyesight search for the opening to the garth. Heard the clink of cups on saucers; the chatter of voices; nearby the smell of the flowers in the flowerbeds. Her white stick tapped against the wall as she walked; her arthritic hand gripped it painfully. Felt the sun's rays on her face; the slight breeze touch her habit like as saucy child. Remembered a summer long ago before she entered the convent. The green of grass in her memory and a kiss. Who's kiss? She searched her memory like one seeking through an old chest. Jude. Yes, Jude. Smiled. Felt opening in the wall; turned into the garth. She remembered vaguely his face; felt the grass beneath her feet. Someone touched her arm with their hand. One of the sisters spoke. Not Sister Clare. Dead now. Most of them were she knew. She listened to the tone of the voice; her eyes failed her again. Sister Mark. Her mind grasped the image that fitted the voice. She smiled. Sister Mark had led her by the arm and asked about tea and cake. Tea, yes, no cake, she said. Mama had a similar voice. Mama had said not to let them touch. Not men; not to be trusted. Or was that papa? She couldn't remember. Take it easy, Mother Abbess had told her; take things steady. Fifty years since she came that summer. She recalled the heat of that summer. The cloister's smell of bread and incense. Papa's face when she left home that day; the tears in his eyes; the awkward smile on his lips. No one came now. All dead and buried. Clare in the convent cemetery next to the wall; mole holes along by the gravestone. That had been an adventure in the art of love. A secret known only to God and them. Mea culpa, she whispered. Sister Mark handed a cup and saucer; soft hand touched hers; sweet voice spoke of the weather and the smell of the flowers. Sighed. Breathed in the air. Sipped tea. Cup rattled in the saucer. Stood here once and spoke to all; now few speak; only the kind and brave. Sister Mark spoke of the new novices and of the freshness about them. Sister Teresa looked about her; a vague scan of images; of faces in white and their youthful giggles and chatter. She had been as such once. She, her loves, and her memories. The bell tolled from the cloister clock; voices stilled. The breeze calmed. The sun eased off and hid behind a cloud. Someone took her cup and saucer and placed a hand on her arm. Not to touch, not over much. Mama had said. One of the dead. The God blessed dead. She walked back along the cloister, the hand still on her arm; flesh on flesh. Not to touch, not over much, a soft voice whispered of long ago.

Lizbeth dressed
in her favourite
short dress

knowing her mother
would disapprove
and would lead

to her mother's
usual moans about
looking like a ****

like one of those dancers
on that TV pop music
programme

and what would
the neighbours think?
Lizbeth stared at herself

in the full length mirror
looking at red hair
her freckled skin

which she loathed
and how the dress
was getting tight

about her
how it showed her
shapely figure

which she did like
and her mother didn't
and thought of Benedict

at home in
his village cottage
with his parents

and siblings
and she hoping
to cycle out

to see him
and maybe
if she was lucky

get him
to get down to it
-she had tried

many times before
but with no success
- even in the small church

where no one
ever visited
he wouldn’t get down

to having ***
saying it wasn't
the place

and then another time
in his bedroom
where he took her

to show her
his animals bones
and bird eggs

and fossils
in broken pieces
of chalk

and it was there
behind them
his double bed

already for them
but no
she was till a ******

and even here
in her own bedroom
she brought him once

and still he wouldn't
have it
even though she'd

almost stripped off
her clothes for him
O how boring

he could be
and she gagging for it
so much so

that she was tempted
to go it alone-
as seen in

the *** book
a girl at school
had lent her-

but no
she wanted Benedict
no other boy

just him
and down stairs
she heard her mother

singing along
to the radio
some classical

music stuff
her mother's voice
croaking above

the music
like an unhappy frog
she lifted

the short dress
by the hem
to see how short

it could get
before her mother
would take it away

from her
and give it
to another

she raised it so
she could just
about see her

white underwear
and smiled
and said

to herself
there
yes there.

Miriam likes the sun.

Miriam wears her
skimpy bikini on
the Moroccan beach.

Benedict prefers
the shade.

Benedict likes
the skimpy bikini
that Miriam wears
he watches her
as they walk the sand
hand in hand.

She has her sunglasses
pushed to the top
of her red-headed hair
and her freckled face
absorbs the sun
making her
blush looking
in skin and flesh.

He has his sunglasses
over his eyes
from which
he secretly spies
other girls
apart from her
in skimpier bikinis
or fuller filled
or taller than she
or such may be...

Cooler last night
she says eyeing him...

Cool indeed
says he and how
was she who
shares your tent?...

Miserable as sin
with her mouthful
of moans
Miriam says
taking in his brown
quiffed hair
and his far off stare...

I have the ex-army guy
Benedict says
and his tales of woe
and depressive thoughts
eyeing a passing girl
in tight pink shorts...

If only you
were in my tent
with me
she says
it would be time
well spent
not have her moans
and groans to hear...

That time I did
after the nightclubs
of Tangier till dawn
says he
you had your moans
and groans
to fill the air...

Mmm
she says smiling
if only you were
still there making love
with your hands
in my hair...

Too true
says he studying
with shaded eyes
Miriam's assets
bikinied or not
as best he dare.

Her husband failed
to give her this, this
embrace, this kiss.
Her lover, this other

woman, this one whom
she could explore, wrap
herself in, tongue, lick,
smell, was suddenly

revealed to her, at a party
of her husband’s, some
big do, some work related,
job promotion hogwash.

She almost dissolves in
this female warmth, this
female smell, this soft
flesh thing she has known,

yet misunderstood for so
long. Her husband’s ******
predatorial ways are over,
he can go find some other,

go to some girl at the office,
some **** he secretly (so he
thought) had bought. She
feels born again, as if erupted

from the womb a second
time, mouthed a fresh cry,
suckled at new ******* and
likewise the other hers, too.  

What would people say has
long since ceased to matter,
love’s intensity blows out
candles of such, puts far from

reach the narrow minded tongues,
the moralistic finger pointers.
They sleep together, eyes closed,
bodies wrapped about each the

other, dreams take on a new edge,
other shades and tones, nothing
of the old life, just this woman to
woman thing and loving moans.

Yiska sits on the sofa staring.
Music on the radio, background
noise. Naaman walks the length
of the locked ward, right hand
in his dressing gown pocket.

White bandage, blood stained,
wrapped around his left wrist.  
Avshalom’s razor did the job
unsatisfactorily, he muses,
feeling the soreness where

the wound’s wrapped. Yiska
taps the sofa seat and beckons
for Naaman to sit beside her.
He sits down, hands on knees.
She’d found him in the locked

ward washroom wrist slit,
blood drenched. She talks to
him, low voice, muttering words.
The nurse at the desk eyes them.
Slit wrong way, Yiska says, the

Romans had it down to a fine art.
Naaman senses the wrist throb.
He smells her soapiness, wants
to wrap himself into her. Some
deem it a sin to take your life,

she says. Doesn’t matter a ****
once you’ve gone, she adds, tracing
a finger along his artery. More
ways than one to go, Yiska says,
reaching the bandaged wound.

Naaman says, I know, I tried each
in turn, failed me each. She smiles.
That hanging **** was a no no, she
says. Need to go beautifully, not
boggled eyed with protruding tongue

like some rabbit hung. The nurse
takes his hand and feels the bandage
hold. She unsmiling looks at both,
their conversation dumbed. Naaman
senses the nurse’s hands trace a

line around the wound. Unimpressed,
she moves away, eyed by Yiska’s dark
stare, watches the nurse talking to
another standing there. Makes work
for them, Yiska says, no feathers in

their caps if you break through to the
other side. Naaman sniffs her soapiness,
warms to her nearness, seeks to dissolve
into her otherness. Sylvia had it off to
pat, Yiska says, head in the oven dozed

to a death. Sylvia? Naaman asks, his eyes
skimming along her thigh where night
gown showed. Plath, she says, the poet,
back in 63. Naaman drinks in her dark
valley where her night gown gapes, his

black dog mood barks in his brain. Look,
Yiska says, pointing her finger window
wards, after the freezing snow, comes rain.

Benedict
Christina called
as I got off
the school bus

I went over
to her
standing by
the wire fence

surrounding
the girls' playground
she took my arm
and walked me

along the fence
out of earshot
of others
I dreamed

of you last night
she said
did you now
I said

watching a prefect
looking over
what was I up to?
that would be telling

she said
that's the point
I said
some girls

were playing skip rope
singing a rhyming song
she looked at me
with her brown eyes

you kissed me
she said
is that all?
I said

the prefect  was walking
over towards us
his lanky frame
moving

at a steady pace
it was a long kiss
she said
how long?

I asked
I didn't time it
she said
but it was good

made me feel
all unnecessary
as I heard
my cousin say

when she stayed
with us
what are you two
up to?

the prefect asked
you
he said to me
should be making

your way
to the boys' playground
not here
chatting up girls

Christina
looked at him
then at me
she dreamed of me

last night
I said
she was just
telling me

I bet no one
dreams of you
I added
looking at

the lanky prat
do you want to go
to the headmaster?
he said

giving me
the stern eye
Christina
was looking at me

her eyes like
melted chocolate
got to go
I said to her

see you lunch time
at recess
on the field
I walked off

the prefect stared
after me
Christina stood
with her hands

in front of her
her thumbs playing
with each other
I turned before

I went out of sight
and blew
her a kiss
which she pretended

to catch and put in
her school skirt pocket
the prefect scowled at her
as she walked away

patting my blown kiss
next to her thigh
easing out
a school girl sigh.

Beside and beyond
the tabernacle
(evangelistic not catholic)
was one of the biggest

bombsites to explore
more ruins to climb
more places
to hide and seek

and you showed Helen
around the place
finding a way through
the wooden hoardings

put up to keep kids out
and she stood
gaping around
and said

gosh isn’t it big
and to think
that people lived here
and maybe died here

and she clutched
her doll Battered Betty
in her arm protectingly
and you with your catapult

in the back pocket
of your jeans
showed her
into what was left

of a house
climbing the wooden stairs
one wall missing
blown away

the sky visible
through the hole
in the roof
and she in her flowered

washed out dress
climbed gingerly
behind you
talking about what

her mother might say
if she knew
saying how her mother
would wag her finger

at her and say
don’t go in those bombsites
they are dangerous
in one room

was a lopsided picture
still hanging
and there
in the wooden floor

a gaping hole
showing the cellar
two storeys below
she gripped your hand

with hers her other hand
clutching Betty
pressed tight
to her chest

and she said
what would
your mother say
if she knew

you were here?
she won’t
you said
what she don’t know

will do her good
less to worry about
and from the top room
of the house

you could see
the tabernacle
in the early morning sun
feel the sunlight

seeping through
on your face
and Helen said
she was scared

and could you go down  
and so you went
back down the stairs
she gripping you tight

Betty hanging
by one hand to Helen
the smell of dust
and old *****’s ***

and damp wood
and bricks
and London still there
despite old ******’s tricks

with bombs and fire
for you to wander
and explore
and taking Helen

carefully
went out the door.

And there was Mame
posed between two Arabs
leaning against a camel

on a Moroccan beach
winding up her watch
clothed in a red and white

swim suit
and Johnny had said
You could’ve had her mate

the other night
she was yours
for the taking

(*** you thought he meant)
others have said
they’ve had her

and that settled the matter
and you just shrugged
and said

It never happened
it wasn’t that type of thing
(kissing and embracing

beneath a bright moon maybe)
but not what he
or others may have thought

as they saw that you and she
had gone off into the night
hand in hand

Oh you could have ridden her home
Johnny said
but it never entered your head

that night
with its stars and moon
and she beside you

listening to the Mediterranean Sea
**** the shores of the beach
laying on your backs

smoking and watching
the smoke rise
talking of home

and another land
and the future’s hold
and her hopes

and your wishes
and looking back
you know your life

turned out different  
wondering if her hopes and wishes
of the then

turned out right
or floated lifeless
like dead fishes.

Mr Cutler had passed away
the room was cleared and ready
for the next resident
clean sheets

pillowcase
fresh blankets
the curtains taken down
and washed and dried

and put up again
but that didn't stop Sophia
penning you in
standing with her back

to the door
blocking your escape
he is dead now?
this Mr Cutler?

yes died the other day
you said
nice bed
she said

you looked at
the candlewick bed spread
blue and smooth
yes guess so

you replied
you gazed at her
with her blonde hair
tied in a pony tail

her ice blue eyes
focused on you
her Polish English words
harsh yet also soft

you could **** me there
she breathed
rather than said
too risky

you said
more exciting
she uttered
her Polish tongue

brutalizing
the English
who will see?
the old man dead

who else
will come in here?
some old boy might
come in by mistake

you said
an audience
will add to the fun
she breathed out

the words
you could smell
their sensuality
no I can't

I have baths to do
you uttered
looking at the door
behind her back

they can wait
she said
or you could
bath me first

she said smiling
I've got to go
you said
someone might need me

I need you
she uttered
here on the bed
I can't

you said
if you try to leave
the room I will scream
she said

I will say you try
to touch me up
as you lot say
she put one hand on a hip

and the other
against the door
they wouldn't believe you
you said

let's try
if I scream loud enough
and cry they will
she said

she mimed opening
her mouth and screaming
ok
you said

no need to scream
she smiled
good boy
I like you

she said
moving away
from the door
and unbuttoning

her blue overall coat
revealing her tight
short dress
her ******* pressing out

the top
she dropped her overall
on a chair by the window
and drew the curtains

that's better no?
it made the room darker
the shadowy light
made the moment surreal

come on
she said
mustn't waste time
and she began to undress

and you stood there
open mouthed
and doomed
when someone

called your name
down the passageway
Mr Elks needs you
where are you?

oh ****
Sophia said
dressing quickly
and standing

by the sink
out of sight
of the door way
sorry

you said
maybe another time
and you opened the door
and closed it behind you

as Matron arrived
ah there you are
Mr Elks has been
calling for you

I think he needs to go
to the bathroom
o right
you said

just been making sure
the place is ready
nodding back
at late Mr Cutler's room

ok
she nodded
and gave the door
a quick look

and then went on ahead
leaving Sophia dressing
and forsaken
no ****

for her today
and followed Matron
with no
more to say.

There’s an empty cottage
at the end of this lane
Jane said

and there’s a large apple tree
in the garden
and no one goes there

so maybe we can look
through the windows
and see what’s there

sounds good
you said
and she smiled at you

in her shy manner
and brushed her fingers
through her long black hair

and breathed in
the summer air
and there were birds

flying overhead
and a small brook
running along side

the lane
and you felt happy
being there with her

looking at her profile
at the way her eyes
looked about her

and her flowered summer dress
she said her mother made
and the way she swayed

her hips as she walked
and you sensed her nearness
her just being there

just a fingertip away
and when you came
to the empty cottage

she ran ahead and peered
through the windows
and you came along beside her

and looked through the glass
at the emptiness within
and she said

let’s see if the doors are locked
and she ran to the door
and pushed but it was locked

and she said
just a chance we could have gone in
and pretended it was ours

and imagined where
we could have put our furniture
and we could have gone up the stairs

and looked out and pretended
it was our bedroom
and we had just married

and then she was silent
and you stood behind her
and touched her arm

and said
let’s go pick some apples
and you can pretend

you’re going to cook
an apple-pie
for our dinner instead

and she smiled
and gently pressed her lips
on your cheek

a small wet warmness
entered you
and oh

you thought
as she ran to the tree
that she would always be here

just the summer sun
and she in her beautifulness
and 13 year old me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Room is the same,
she knows, even
the curtains hang
similar to those she
had when it all began.  

The bed has the
memories soaked
into the very fabric
and springs, she
bounces minutely,

to set the memories
in motion. She stares
out at the window’s
view, the same old
houses and trees as

was before. She sat
here once listening
for the door. He’d come
back, he said. Would
have it set out in ******

play, she would wait
until told, just her, the
bed, the silk flowered
curtains, the plain walls.  
He came many times

after, played his games,
licked and kissed and
had her when and as
he pleased. She listens
to the wind now that

plays in branches of
the trees, that shakes
the window frame, that
seems to whisper her
naughtiness, echoes

her name. Yes, the room
is, she sighs, the same.

Myfanwy Price plopped in the armchair, sipped at her drink, gazed at the ceiling with a slight squint; spotted a drawing pin that broke up the off-white space like a boil on the buttocks. If Joshua Jones thinks he can drop me like a hot coal he can think again, she moaned to the room in her alto voice that clung to the air around her dark-haired head like a bad smell. Thinks he can do that to me, does he? I’ll show him, she mused darkly, holding the glass above her head, peering down at her slippered feet that lay there like sleeping puppies. After all I’ve done for him, the po-faced prat, she muttered, bringing the glass down to her lips, taking a sip as though it were poison. Just like her dad, dreary as dripping, chapel bred born and dead, at least in the head, she mused, crossing her legs disturbing the puppies, peering through the glass, imagining Dai Davies coming through the door of her bed-sit with an armful of flowers and chocolates, a cuddly kiss with a promise of more, as the evening sky grew dim as her brother Bryan, the kiss lingered in her mind and over her fantasy lips. Mum was right about men, she groaned, wondering if poison was too quick for Jones the Bones or whether she could smother him with a pillow as he laid sleeping in that squat flat of his, where she’d slept once in the single bed that smelt of onions and rotting flesh. She scratched her fleshy thigh, gave a sigh, pulled a face at her reflection in the darkening window, wanted more than wanton ***, the sight of Jones the Bones hanging from the window with his trousers round his skinny ankles, his buttocks bare for all of Cardiff to see and stare. She stood, poured herself another drink, placed a record on her gramophone. Buddy Holly’s Peggy Sue, a daydream of being in his manly arms, and being squeezed, and adding her alto groan to that of young Buddy’s baritone or tenor or whatever. She waltzed the room with her partnered glass gave it kiss and squeeze. Remembering her dad’s stern face; his sermon voice that rattled timbers, she kicked her leg like a dancer, spun it round and round until it got dizzy; plopped in the armchair with a fit of giggles; spilt drink on her dress that seeped to her drawers; sniffing and sighing she poured it all down in a drunken swallow; watched the evening sky darken like her mood and tangled hair. Jones the Bones would pay, she sighed. He’d not lay her aside like an empty glass; go off for another to kiss and cuddle in his dingy flat with its onions and flesh, rotting and foul, she mused sadly, rubbing her breast, pulling her bra that had slipped in her dancing. Mum was right about men, with their ***** thoughts, their wanton ways, wandering hands over hills and stays. She stared at the glass; with a deep dark sigh, she crossed her legs; let the sleeping slippered puppies lie.

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.

Under the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street
where the steam trains
go by overhead

quite frequently
going to somewhere else
by Baldy's
the grocer's store

where you get merchandise
quite often
for your mother
you sat with Janice

waiting to have
your hair cut
(your mother sent her
with you

to make sure
it was done right)
she had her
red beret on

the fair hair
flowing from beneath
her bright eyes
and straight white teeth

when we marry
she said
(why do girls do that
to a kid of 8?

at 9 maybe
that's fine
why spoil his day
with wedding days

and such?)
shall I wear
cream or a white dress?
(cream would be better

than white
make her look
less pale
more quaint

make her look
less likely to faint)
cream'd be good
you said

and what about my bouquet?
what flowers
should I have?
(God knows

you mused
I know nothing
of such things
whatever

the flower guy brings)
I don't know
flower names
you choose

you said
she smiled
and nodded her head
who will be

your best man?
she asked
Carmody or Jupp​?
you said

she didn't
look impressed
or Jim?
you added

he'll do
she said
(why ask you?)
you liked the way

her eyes went wide
at the mention
of Jim
(did she fancy him?)

and the way she leaned
her head to one side
when you said
cream to the colour of dress

(to you
it was a thing
to keep from life
and head

it would seem
but to her
it was a dream)
but who

will give me away?
she said
my Daddy's dead
and mother too

would my old man do?
you said
but she shook her head
(wise kid you thought)

Gran may
if she's not too old
she added
looking straight ahead

or too ill or dead
my brother could
if he's old enough then
(many years hence

you hoped)
a boy amongst men
you said
she just smiled

and gave nod of head
and how many kids
shall we have?
she asked

(why ask me
you thought
how many there'd be?)
two or three?

you said
or more
she suggested
gazing at the barber

who was finishing off
a middle-aged man
with a comb and mirror
wearing a smile

who's next?
he asked
taking off the cape
from the man

he is
Janice said
pointing to you
and a short back

and sides
his mother said
Janice added
the barber nodded you

to the chair
and you sat there
gazing at Janice
in the mirror

imagining her
as a bride in white
or cream
on some one's arm

coming down the aisle
with her smile
but not tomorrow
or next year

or after that
but off
some where
in quite awhile.

Her parents are rowing.

Alice hides in a door way
of the semi-dark passage,
pressing her back against
the door's old wood.

His baritone bark,
her mother's soprano screech,
words reaching beyond
walls hold and depth.

She closes her eyes
against the dimness
and half light,
to hear more or better.

She has evaded
the nanny's search,
ignored the siren's voice,
had hidden and smiled.

The row goes on,
voices higher,
her ears catch at sounds
that float her way.

Far off,
she hears the nanny's voice
grow more desperate
in the morning search.

She misses
her mother's touch and hold,
misses the bedtime
reads and kisses,
instead,
the nanny bids her goodnight
and shuts out the light
with neither kiss or hold
or any caress
as her mother gave.

Silence greets her ears;
the row has ceased.  

The semi-dark
embraces her unkindly,
her closed eyes bring
no comfort to her mind.

A bang and slam,
the row restarts,
Alice opens her eyes
to the semi-dark,
the vibrating voice
of her father's bark.

A slither of light appears
from the passageway beyond,
one walks slow
along the carpet's length,
footsteps soft
against the rowing sounds.

The thin maid appears,
stands gawking,
hands red and thin
by her narrow sides.

What you doing here?
Alice shrugs.
Come, the maid says,
this is no place
for tender ears to wait.

Alice hesitates,
then, taking
the proffered hand
walks along the semi-dark,
the voices
like the drowned
upon the sea,
then off along
the lower regions of the house,
where sounds don't reach
so wild, for one such as she,
a little child.

Behind Sister Bridget's
black habited back
one legged Anne

gave her a one fingered
up you sign
the nun unaware

walked on down
the lush green lawn
the girl with burn scars

on her arm and leg
mouthed
I'm going to tell

but her wide eyed stare
betrayed
she never would

just a maybe
-if-I-had-the-nerve
gesture

hey Skinny kid
Anne said
in lowered voice

hand to the side
of her mouth
as she'd seen spies do

in war films
or on TV
how about we sneak

into town?
the Kid impassively
shrugged

his narrow shoulders
buy you some sweet
if you'll come?

that decided it
and he nodded
and as the nun

walked down the lawn
chatting to the other kids
who were convalescing

from sicknesses
or burns or accidents
Anne and the Kid

sneaked off back
towards the big house
now a nursing home

for children
she on her crutches
he following behind

looking back
towards the lawn
and once inside

they ventured out
the side door
along the path

by the hedge
and down the side road
that led into town

pass traffic
she crutched along
the Kid bringing up

the rear
her one leg treading
the paving

the stump swinging
silently
beneath her skirt

and the Kid
catching her up
walked beside her

and she said
got to get out
of that **** place

with all those
other kids
and those holy nuns

with their tall tales
and frustrated dreams
the Kid said nothing

he was thinking
of the night
she wanted him

to scrub her back
in the bath
or that other time

when he helped her
from her wheelchair
and accidentally

touched her tight ****
by mistake
and the WHAT THE ****

of her words
and the secret feel
had him wandering

outside
his safety zone
like a child at night

finding themselves
in the dark
all alone.

Fay met Baruch
by Arch Street
off of Meadow Row
he was by

the bombed out ruins
across the way
firing his catapult
at tin cans

and empty bottles
she stood at his side
hands in the pockets
of her cardigan

fair hair held
in place by a slide
not firing at the birds
are you?

she asked
looking anxious
no just cans
and bottles

he said
she seemed relieved
and stepped closer
hate to see things hurt

or killed
she said
he tucked the catapult
into the belt

of his jeans
and wiped his hands
on the blue cloth
your old man

let you out then?
he said
she looked about her
in case her father

was near at hand
to hear
my father’s off
for the day

she said
some church things
she added
good to have you here

Baruch said
he stared at her
taking in her hair
and eyes

and her mouth ajar
lips and small teeth
the patterned dress
coming to the knees

red on yellow
going to the flicks later
you want to come?
he asked

she frowned in thought
where?
Camberwell Green
he said

the picture house
is a fleapit
but the film’s good
she blinked

wiped her nose
no money
she said
Dad said to read

Mark Chapter 9
all through
before he gets home
and he will

question me
and if I don’t know it
she became silent
and looked away

Baruch caught sight
of a bruise yellowing
on her right brow
he’d not seen

until she moved
her hair by hand
to wipe her nose
when’s he back?

Baruch asked
late tonight
she said
best not go

she looked across
the bomb site
towards the coal wharf
where horse drawn wagons

came and went
or coal lorries  
along the small road
carrying their load

got time to take in
a film
he said
be back and study then

the Bible bit
she bit her lip
still got no money
she said

looking back at him
standing there
in jeans and blue shirt  
and mucked up hair

I’ve got 2/6d
that’ll do for us to go
and ride and see
and ride on back

she hesitated
looked concerned
if I don’t know St Mark 9
there’ll be hell to pay

(strapped backside
more like he thought
but didn’t say)
we can scan the pages

once we’re back
and gulp it down
and swot it up
he said

she stared
at her plimsolls
white ankle socks
the stones

and bricks
of the bomb site ground
tempted she said
ok

wanting to go
and be with him
she weighed
the balance

in her mind
pushing possible
punishment to the back
of her mind

already he was walking
towards the bus stop
across the bombsite
in casual pace

she followed
taking his hand in hers
unaware her father
from the top

of a bus
had seen
and taking note
knowing what to say

and do
she being
with that kid again
the downstairs Jew.

You want to see him
Now? The receptionist
Asked. Yes, this minute,
You replied. What’s it

About? None of your
Concern. I think I need
To know before I can
Interrupt him. You need

To know jackshit. There
Was a staring of eyes.
Hesitation. A looking
Down at the phone, a

Scratching of forehead
Dislodging flakes of dry
Skin. Is it that important?
Maybe you could give

Me some idea what you
Need to see him about?
***, you mutter. ***?
Yes, he came around

To my place last night
And after a real good
Session lasting until
The small hours he up

And left without so
Much as a goodbye kiss
Or whispered word. That
Right? Yes, you said. I’ll

Get him right away, I
Wanted to know where
The heck my husband
Was last night and now

I know. Are you sure
Want to see him now?

Jane and I walked
to the nearest village
to get some shopping
for the parents
and get fresh air
and talk

what do you think
of the countryside now
after living in London
for so long?
she asked me

I’ve got used to it now
no street lights
no traffic noise
no noisy neighbours
or drunks as there was
in our part of London
I said

or the sound of trains
going over
the railway bridge opposite
or the trucks being shunted
all night
in the coal wharf

now its so quiet
so peaceful
and no pavements
on the side
of the roads here

she smiled
I’ve lived here
all my life
it's as I know it

I looked at her
sideways on
she was wearing
a grey dress and boots
and an open green coat

I wore my jeans
and shirt and jacket

I liked her dark hair
her deep eyes

why do you look at me
like that?
she said

a cat can look at a queen
I said

I’m no queen

I’m no cat
it's just a saying
people have

your mother
seems to like me
I said

she trusts you
unlike some
of the boys around here
Jane said

I nodded

and Daddy said
he can see
you have a honest eye

I looked away
the hedgerows
were high
a blue sky
a bright sun
birds flew
from hedgerows

we came near the village
and I hoped
we could buy a drink
from the grocery shop
and maybe get
to be nearer to her

her hand just inches away
the fingers slim
with unpainted nails
and her lips parted
just enough to see
the gleam of teeth

I felt undone
in love
unsure
just to be there
watching the flow
and slight wind
in her dark hair.

Mrs Parker
at Christmas time
behind

her husband's back
while sitting
on the sofa

felt your thigh
gave you the eye
smiled

her fingers tightening
arousing
her daughter

catching sight
said nothing
gazed at you

you looked away
and sensed
Mrs Parker's fingers

release their grip
then tried to unzip
the finger and thumb

tight holding
you looked down
she intent

her husband
putting on
some Christmas carols LP

tried to lower the noise
by waving his hands
as if

he were about to fly
her other children
gathered here

and there
about the tree
or by the fireside

or on the sofa
beside their mother
whose finger and thumb

discreetly unzipped
and felt inside
rousing your pecker

from deep sleep
the carol singers
from the LP

filled the room
the others adding voice
or chatter or loud laughter

but the one daughter
seeing all
her mother's fingers

engaged at play
blushing looked away
drink young man?  

Mrs Parker's husband asked
gesturing with a hand
held out

yes beer please
you replied
sensing your pecker

stirring in its cage
Mrs Parker's fingers
digging deeper

her face averted
eyes on her husband's
wanderings

smiling all the while
singing carol verses
she knew by heart or rote

but you sat
aroused below
and sang not a note.

Baruch took the bus
to Kennington park
he wanted to see
a different place

away from the usual
the familiar sights
and people
he had brought

Fay along
having paid
her bus fare
and saying

they’d not be late
(she worrying
about her father
getting home from work

and finding
that she'd not
completed her
school essay

on The Ten Commandments)
and also
that she was with him
(whom her father

termed the Jew boy)
and he said it was better
if she never saw him
which was impossible

as they lived
in the same
block of flats
and went by

each other
on the stairs
but her mother knew
and said

to keep it quiet
and gave Fay a 1/-
for an ice cream
and drink of cola

they walked around
the park
she gazing
at the flowers

and butterflies
and birds
and he imagining
Injuns about

to pop out
of the bushes
or over
the small mound

(he called a hill)
on their mixed
coloured horses
and firing arrows

from their bows
or shooting
from rifles
and as he walked

he patted
the 6 shooter gun
in the holster
hanging

from the belt
of his jeans
( hidden
by his grey jacket)

she talked
of the nun at school
who slammed
a wooden ruler

on the palms
of girls
who didn't know
their catechism

all through
and the girl
who had her
legs slapped

for wearing
her school dress
too short
(she'd outgrown it

and her parents
couldn't afford another)
and he talked
of the cowboy film

he'd seen the other day
where the cowboy
wore his two guns
back to front

so that he had to
cross hands
to reach them
and still out drew

the bad guys
and which he wanted
to practice until
he had it just right

she listened to him quietly
taking in
his hazel eyes
the wavy hair

and that
bright eyed stare
and he listened to her
gazing at her

as he did so
at her fair hair
held in metal hair grips
her blue eyes

her pale complexion
that nervousness
she seemed to have
as if her father

was going to leap out
at her from a bush
and the bruise
on her upper arm

he'd seen
when she removed
her cardigan
having got hot

in the midday sun
and after walking around
for a while
and then sitting

looking at some
old guy feeding birds
with broken bread
they bought two ice creams

and bottles of cola
and she said
a grace in Latin
and he mumbled

some Hebrew prayer
and they sat licking
and eating
and drinking

and once she kissed
his cheek shyly
and said they'd
best get home

before her father did
and he saw her
with him
the upstairs Jew

(as her father
termed him)
and gave her
what for

as soon
as she went
timidly
through the front door.

Isolde stands at the window
of her old room. Her mother
and sister sit around the small

white table, talking to Tristana.
Cobwebs hang from the metal
curtain rail, a dead spider hangs

like a dead parachutist, a dried
up fly on the white painted
windowsill. The first few days

out of the asylum seem odd,
seem to unbalance her. Tristana
seems engaging well with her

icy mother, her sister looks on
anxiously. My room, she had
told Tristana. My bed, she had

added pointing to the bed
pushed against a wall. In the
asylum, some weeks back,

she and Tristana had ******.
The fat nurse had caught them
and reported. There had been

giggles and guffaws in the staff
room afterwards. Now she and
Tristana were free, government

clearout, new policy, economical
necessities. She stares at her
mother’s head move from side

to side, her jaw opening and
closing like the shark she was.
Just a quick visitation, she said.

Her mother’s eyes and mouth
opened with shock when they
turned up. Not staying, she had

informed. Visiting the once, she
had said. Her mother seemed
relieved, her sister white as a

sheet, nodded her head like
some cheap doll. The room
was cold, colder than before.

She’d been taken from here
those years back, screaming,
held between men in white,

out into the cold night. Be gone
soon, she mutters, rubbing a
finger down the pane of glass,

making a rude noise, all heads
turn toward her room from
the garden below. Goodbye
old room, time for us to go.

Clara is in deep thought.
Head on pillow. Hand
resting beside head, one
ring on finger. She sighs.

Senses still his touches,
smells still his aftershave,
his body odours beneath.
Moves leg. Muscles in

left buttock feel numb.
She didn’t want to leave,
didn’t want him to stay,
didn’t want him anyway.

She moves her toes. He
****** those. He said let’s
make love and that was it.
If that was love then love

is not what love was often
promised. She sniffs the pillow.
His smell, his presence there.
A small strand of hair. Her

mother never spoke of ***
or what it entailed; her mother
failed. She moves on her
back, stretches her legs.

Had cramp. The moves he
wanted, the positions he
required. Now she’s tired.
She senses the urgent need

to urinate. Full bladder.
Closes eyes. Feels the need
increase. Needs release.
She wonders what made

him make love the way he did;
those moves and positions.
The language he used. She
feels abused. She sits up.

Needs to urinate, moves
to edge of the bed, stands
and races to the toilet.
Door’s stuck; ****, too late.

Mrs Dillinger undressed
in the hotel room
a different room
from the time before

shouldn’t we
close the curtains first?
you asked
there’s an office block

across the road
and there maybe people
who might see in
she paused

in releasing her bra
who the **** cares?
the nets will dim
or fuzz what they may see

she said
and carried on
as before
her fingers fumbling

from behind her back
I like the other room best
you said
it seemed more private

she dropped her bra
on to a chair by the bed
and unzipped her skirt
you worry too much

what people think Kid
undress and lets to action
you scanned the room
the white walls

the one picture
of some seaside scene
second rate furniture
and a double bed

someone was playing music
from a room along the hall
undressed she slipped
into bed and waited

her eyes all over you
come on Kid
you’re wasting time
you unzipped

your jeans
and let them fall
and kicked them
across the floor

then bit by bit
you took off
the rest of your clothes
and carefully put them

on the chair
even the jeans
by the door
passions can dilute

you know
she said
ok
you said

just coming
well don’t come too soon
she said
and laughed

and you climbed into bed
and the springs groaned
and you lay beside her
seeing the hair

beneath her arms
oh that
she said
that’s just part

of my charms
and she touched
your pecker
and kissed your lips

and set to work
and out of the corner
of your eye
you looked across

to the window
wondering if people
could see
what she was doing

to you
wondering if the nets
kept it blurred
or invisible

or maybe
they couldn’t careless
what you were doing
to each to each

across the road
and out of reach.

Helen's mother meets us
after school and takes us
to the market
to buy Helen
a new school skirt.

I walk behind with Helen
as her mother walks in front
pushing a big pram
with baby inside
and her brother
sitting on top.

Her mother has
a large behind
like a shelf
and muscle-bound
arms and legs.

That Cogan boy
said I looked like a fish,
Helen says to me.

How do you look
like a fish?

He said he has
a goldfish that looks
like me:
big eyes
and a big mouth.

He can talk;
he's got glasses
and a mouth
that is always open.

Keep up, you two,
Helen's mother says.

We run a few steps
to catch up.

He pinched my bottom
in class during history
and made me shout
and Mr F said
I was not to shout out
during lesson.

Did you say
it was Cogan?

No, didn't want to say;
bit embarrassing
to say he pinched
my bottom
with the whole class
listening.

Mind the road,
you two chatterboxes,
Helen’s mother bellows.

We pause at the kerb
as a lorry rushes by.

We walk across the road;
Helen’s mother's hat
is lopsided,
her coat
has a loose hem.

I had a fight
with Cogan once.

Did you?

Yes, he said
he was going
to break my nose;
but I punched him
with a left,
knocked his
glasses flying
and he couldn't
see me after that,
so I punched him
in the bread basket.

Bread basket?

Slang for stomach.

O, I see.

She frowns.

I like it when she frowns;
her forehead
creates lots of lines
and her glasses
slide down her nose.

We arrive at the market
and Helen’s mother
sorts through skirts
on a market stall.

Come here, Helen,
I need to measure you
against this skirt.

Helen goes to her mother
who places a number
of skirts against her.

Helen's eyes are wide open;
her mouth open
like a fish
out of water,
but I say nothing,
I look at her plaited hair,
her hands by her side
and brown scuffed shoes.

This is the one,
her mother says
to the market man,
I'll have this one.

The guy wraps up
the skirt in a bag
and takes the money
and gives her change.

Now home to tea,
Helen's mother says,
and don't
linger behind,
my girl,
or I’ll tan
your backside.

We set off,
following behind,
I think of Helen’s
wide eyes
and open mouth
fish impression,
but keep it inside.

Still born babe coffined.
Mother broken heart and head,
her first baby dead.

Mr Bedlows
showed you around
the old folk’s home
the day had begun

at the new job
the smell of *****
and old age
drifted by the nostrils

the dimly lit passageway
he opened a door
morning Mr Grigg
morning Mr Mash

he said
to the old men
sitting on beds
then off

you both went again
more doors opened
other old men
welcomed

downstairs and up
the passageways
like circles
of Dante’s Hell

the old men gazed
at you as you entered
their aged eyes
followed you

about their room
you the young guy
the wet-behind- the-ears
young thing

they’d seen wars
fought in trenches
seen men killed
blown apart

mind damaged
body’s crippled
soul’s laid bare
smoke and death

in the air
I’ll leave you with Sidney
Mr Bedlows said
and went closing the door

trapping you
with smell and age
and Sidney’s stare
half hour later

having cleaned him up
and washed and dried
and clothed him neat
you set him on his way

with walking frame
and slow pace
for him
another dreary day

for you the beginning
the other men
to coax
or dress

or wash
or comb the hair
or set them
on their walk

with old timers
chatter
or idle
long ago talk.

You both rode your bicycles
to the small church
along the lane
and parked your bikes

against a tree
in the churchyard
out of sight from the lane
will there be anyone in there?

Milka asked
as you tried
the old wooden door
don't think so

people only come here
one Sunday in the month
you said
you opened the door

and walked in
it smelt of damp
and oldness
and no one was there

you walked up the aisle
and looked at the old pews
and stained glass windows
people still come here?

she said
guess so
you said
kind of old isn't it

you stood looking
back at her
her dark hair
brought into a ponytail

her jeans and green top
do you like the place?
you said
for what?

she said
to visit
you said
been to better places

she said moodily
thought you
were going to take me
somewhere

we could be alone
and kiss and such
she added
looking around the church

we are alone
you said
yes but hardly
the place to kiss

and do things
she said
we can kiss here
you said

then what?
she said
she walked down the aisle
looking about the place

you watched her
we could have ridden
to the pond place
and did more

she said
let's just sit
and get the feel
of the place

you said
she reluctantly walked
back to you
and you sat in

one of the pews together
I wonder how many couples
have walked down
this aisle as man and wife?

you said
a few unfortunate couples
I guess
she said

you smiled
some make a go of it
you said
don't get any ideas

she said
I'm not ready
for that stuff yet
do your brothers

still needle you
about going out
with me?
you asked

not any more
they got bored with it
in the end
besides you're

their friend
and I’m just their sister  
they said
you ought to see a quack

after going out with
she said unsmiling  
and my mother
trusts me with you

which is annoying
why annoying?
I wanted her to be worried
that I was doing things

and have her look at me
like I was a no good *****
you laughed
what for?

to see her reaction
she trusts me
you said
well she shouldn't

Milka said
not after
what we have been up to
it's not always

what you do
it's what people think you
do that makes them
judged you

you said
I don't like this place
she said
let's go elsewhere

ok
you said
and so you got out
of the pews

and walked out
of the church
and got on your bikes
and rode off

into the Saturday morning air
giving her moving hips
as she rode
a happy stare.

Dotty screws the pen lid,
puts the pen down, folds
her hands in her lap. *****
has finished his poem, he

is now silent, his muse has
gone. She watches as her
brother sits back in his chair,
pushes his fingers through his

dark hair and sighs. That makes
her almost cry, that poet muse
going like that, him sitting there,
face empty, sighs leaving him

instead of words. Tonight she
will enter it all in her journal,
after cocoa and a biscuit and
*****’s kiss and him gone off

to bed, humming to himself.
She will sit by lamplight, take
out her pen, and write on the
clean page, how he wrote,

what he wrote, the words,
the muse, the leaving of him.
She will leave out the kiss,
the embrace, the seeing each

other face to face. ***** hates
writing things down, he just likes
to sit when the words come and
he can speak them and let Dotty

write the words in the air floating
there. He gets up from his chair,
paces the room, his hands behind
his back, his words gone, his mood

dark, becoming black. Dotty looks
at her hands, entwines her fingers,
makes a church, makes a steeple,
looks inside, sees ink stained people.