It's a fish
for God's sake
Anne said

seeing the
excitement
from the kids

having found
a dead fish
on the beach

and the nun
with them said
we could have

it for tea
or supper
there were cheers

from the kids
walking back
to the home

listen Kid
Anne said
if they think

I'm eating
that dead fish
they can go

**** themselves
the Kid looked
at the fish

being held
by its tail
by the nun

the dead eyes
staring out
don't eat it

Anne said
don't like it
swinging there

the dead eyes
the Kid said
pushing up

the pathway
the wheelchair
with Anne

inside it
him gazing
at her leg

and the gap
beside it
where her lost

leg had been
and the stump
lying there

visible
where her skirt
had risen

don't eat it
that dead fish
Anne said

no I won't
the Kid said
looking past

Anne's head
at the fish
swinging there

cold and dead.

I’d just come back
from Somerset
the night before
after staying

with an aunt and uncle
and was walking down
from the Square
when Enid

was walking up
from the baker shop
off of Rockingham street
I’ve missed you

she said
got back last night
I said
her left eye

was bluey green skin
how’s your old man?
I asked
still thumping

his daughter happily?
she looked away
up at the flats
behind us

I walked into
a lamppost
she said
wasn’t looking

where I was going
I noticed four
finger size bruises
on her arm

but said nothing
about them
yes I know lampposts
kind jump out at you

when you pass by
she looked at me
I ought not
talk to you

she said
why?
my father said
he doesn’t like you

and I mustn’t
talk to you
but you are
I said

besides
I don’t like
your old man either
so that make us

kind of balanced
I better go
she said
but stayed

looking at me
if I see your old man
on the stairs
of the flats

I’ll trip him up ok?
no no
she said
her mouth

staying open
I was kidding Enid
relax
she gripped

the white paper
bag of rolls
in her hand
and looked up

at the flats
missed you
she whispered
glad you’re

back again
and I watched her
walk up the *****
to the flats

the sky was dark grey
promising rain.

You remembered
the girl
not her name
but Ward

the kid next to you
in the science class
caught sight
of the girls

through the window
off across
the sports field
in their yellow tops

and green
short
P.E. skirts
and said

in hushed voice
look at that
all that girl flesh
and me stuck here

being brain soddened
by this science guff
when I could be out
with the girls

you saw her
out there
with skip rope
rushing after others

the sun warm
the sky hazy
the science teacher
sprouting off

about something boring
and Ward
his eyes
supping it all in

through the glass
the sports teacher
following
in her adult

blue top
and white P.E skirt
with whistle
between lips

and the girl
had been swallowed up
into the mass
of yellows

and greens
and legs
and arms
and the glass

of the classroom
like a huge
picture frame
holding for the eyes

the girls
in yellow and green
and the girl
with the lost name.

Coming of spring over the fields
she sitting there in the tall grass

talking of the effects of art on the
human mind and fragile heart and

you sitting there beside her your
hand near hers as it lay there and

you half listening to her words while
taking in a glimpse of thigh showing

where her skirt rides high out of the
corner of your eye and she saying

without the essence art life would be
a mistake and you lean forward and

kiss her neck sensing the softness of
skin the smell of sweet scent wishing

Rubens or Renoir could capture her
with brush and oils and by stretched

canvas held with the coming of spring
in this green field where songbirds sing.

And she's no more
A ****** than that
Magdalene who

Dried the feet
Of Christ with
Her hair, said

O'Brien, giving
You the wink and
Nodding towards

The girl at the bar
With the skirt way
Above the knees,

Carrying a tin for
Some charity, laughing
With O'Connell, giving

You the eye and O'Brien
The pip and shaking
The tin around the bar,

Like some ***** in
Biblical times ringing
Their bell and old Mrs

Murphy smiled a smile
Broader than her hips,
And you shaking your

Young head, looked back
At the girl and her tin
And the way she walked

To the door with the
Backside sweet enough
To fill a thousand dreams.

And we're in line
for school dinner
and the trestles
have been set up

for the purpose
and Fay
is in front of me
in the line up

and I smell
a scent flower like
fresh and rewarding
after sitting

next to Dennis
most of the morning
in class
her hair is fair

and almost blonde
and down
to her shoulders
there are two

yellow ribbons
holding the hair
in bunches
I study

I sniff gently
not loudly
not taking
a pig's sniff

but just
an intake of breath
of a sniff
and she moves

along the line
and I move
after her
and her hands

are white
and the fingers delicate
and the nails
filed and neat

and she's shy
and turns and says
can we talk
after dinner?

sure we can
I say
taking in her
blue eyes

and the lips
and God I think
how is it
that my

11 year old
brain and eyes
are feasting on
her 11year old being

as such
I don't know
no more than I know
why flowers die

then bulbs come
or why my
great grandmother
dies and that's it

and she turns back
to the dinner lady
and the woman says
two ***** of potato

or one?
peas? carrots?
she nods her head
and says

one ball please
and then moves on
with her plate
and I face

the woman and say
all that I can have
and she looks at me
with her dark eyes
and sighs.

From where you sit
In the window,
You have a good

View of the street
Even through the
Net curtain, though

You doubt he’ll turn
Up, in fact you’re
Certain. He’s gone

Off before; left
Once for three weeks,
But he came back

Then, but you doubt
We will again.
This time he seemed

So convincing;
His words were so
**** right rude and

Offensive, the
Blue eyes of him
Almost burnt you

Through. But you sit
Anyway, sit
With arms folded,

Eyes glued, ready
To cry at the
Least thing, big tears

Waiting just on
The eye’s rims like
Held back black rains.

You bite your lips
In turn, peer through
The nets of white,

Feel your *** numb,
Your legs ache, sense
The need to ***,

But you still wait.
The frailty
Of most human

Relations and
Conversations;
Love so fragile,

So dark deep, so
****** shallow,
Not enough to

Keep, but plenty
Enough for your
Sorrow. He’ll be

Back an inner
Voice says, be back
In no time, tail

Between his thighs;
No he won’t some
Other voice cries.

Still you sit and
Watch and wait and
Remember past

*****, promises
And kisses; it’s
Always the best

Times one recalls,
The last kiss and
Hold one misses.

Her mother cries;
shouts vibrate
the passageway,
her father bellows
four letter words
that seem to pull
at Enid's ears.

She sits
on the side
of her bed
half dressed,
waiting for the row
to end before
she ventures out
for breakfast and school.

There's a bruise
over her right eye,
it fills out
like a painted blob.

She caresses herself
against the sounds;
bites her lip
in anticipation
of her father's return.

A door slams shut;
silence filters in.

She can hear
her mother's sobs,
deep throated,
gut wrenching.

Enid stands up
and goes
to her bedroom door,
peers out;
he's gone;
her mother's
in the kitchen,
sobs echoing.

Enid shuts the door
and gets dressed;
her stomach
is rumbling;
her hair
is in a mess;
the bruise spreads
like a red
and blue stain.

After breakfast
and her mothers' silence,
Enid goes off
to school
and meets Benny
by the Square's *****.

You've got a bruise.

I know,
banged my head
against a door.

Same door
as last time?
Benny asks.

She looks back
at the block of flats.

Same one.

Benny walks beside her
as they go down
the ***** and onto
Rockingham Street,
his eyes scanning her,
taking in the untidy hair,
the bruise,
the smell of damp cloth.

What's upset
your old man, now?

Who says he's upset
about anything?

The bruise
over your eye.

She looks at him:
the hazel eyes,
the quiff of hair
over his forehead,
the small smile
that isn't a smile,
but seems like one.

Accident,
he didn't mean to.

You're accident prone;
running into doors
and fists
and backhanders.

She stops
and stares at him:
not your business.

Benny stares back at her:
who's then?

She walks on,
brushing at her hair,
dabbing at the bruise.

She hates arguments
and rows,
she always seems
to lose.

Abela sits on the balcony
she likes the sun
the way the sun
glows her skin

I am inside
reading my book
sipping my wine

why don't you come outside
on the balcony
and feel the sun?
she says

I turn a page
sip more wine
I prefer the shade
the coolness

still reading that book?

I like books

but that book?
What's it about?

It's a philosophy book

I’m out here
on this balcony
on holiday
getting some sun
and you are inside
reading a ****
philosophy book?

It's relaxing

you can read
on a rainy day
come get some sun

I look at her
out on the balcony
in her bikini
her legs crossed
her dark glasses
like  insect eyes

I hate sitting
in the sun
it gives me a headache
and I feel it
a waste of time
I say

she looks towards me
we spent yesterday
walking around old ruins
that was a waste of time
she says

that was good
I say

old bricks
old windows
old relics?
she says
almost
in a sing song voice

I look at the hotel room wall
some water colour painting
hangs there
dull as dirt

I sip my wine
and close the book
and go lay
on the double bed
shoes off
shirt open at the neck
thinking of *** of course
thinking of her
laying there
as had
the night just gone

and she outside
singing some
**** love song.

Alma notices
the minutest

degree of chill
from him. He

may make love
and he may not,

but she can sense
if he’s been else

where in times
between. She can

smell another girl.
That time he said

all those words,
brought flowers,

perfume and chocs
and such, but she

knew they were
for some other or

seemed as much.
She looks at him

sitting there, that
glint in his eyes,

that devil may care
stare, that smile,

but all the while,
there’s some other

girl’s assets he’s
musing, some other

he’s had or soon will
do, he’s there, but

he’s not with you,
she says inside,

keeping it all in,
holding back tears,

stomach in knots,
heartbeat racing,

wanting him, but
not, trying to act

cool, but all too hot.
She allows him to

make love, feels
nothing, permits

his kisses, touches;
wonders who he

pretends it is he’s
making love to,

which one he’s
kissing in his head.

He’s gone now,
she’s undressed

and scrubs him
off as much as

water, soap and
brush allows. She

lies in the bath,
water like menstrual

flood, slit wrists,
cool dampness,

soaked in blood.

Elaine sits
in her room
the door shut

her sister
in the room
next to hers

plays records
all too loud
an Elvis

Rock and Roll
kind of song
but Elaine

shuts it out
as best as
she now can

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

gazing hard
at herself
in mirror

her features
those two eyes
her thoughts on

the boy John
what went wrong?
almost there

getting close
yet so tense
lost in words

burnt in touch
scared to feel
love as this

undoing
lost balance
this love feel

this chasm
she pretends
to kiss him

her eyes close
Elvis sings
from nearby

the song hurts
feels undone
makes her cry.

Waiting’s worse. She knows it.
That old feeling known since
childhood. Then it was the parent,
the heavy hand, the punishment.

This is like it, but not like it. She
waits for him to come home. His
footfalls in the hall, his voice along
the passage. To gauge the tone,

the loud or softness. She sits, waits.
Be prepared, the mother said,
years back.  The clock in the hall
sounds loud with its tick tock. Puts

hands between the thighs, anxiety
bites. For better for worse, the
vows said.  Bruises like medals,
black eyes as reminders, a colour

ranging from black and blue to green
to brown or whatever it is. She *****
an ear. Him? Maybe. The last time
it was she’d been seen with some

feller. She’d not of course. But it suited
as an excuse. She’d lost the baby by
the fall down stairs. What was that
all about? Was that the time she had

been late with his dinner? Or was that
some other? Baby’d be walking now.
Missed the first steps, the first word,
the live birth. Is that him? She bites a

finger nail. Feelings seem to run along
the nerves. What to say? What words?
The door opens along the hall, his voice
echoes mildly, we shall wait, we shall see.

You’re the boy
from near the farm
aren’t you?

Jane asked
standing by
the school bus

after school
had finished
for the day

yes
you replied
yes I am

and you wanted
to say more
but your tongue

dried up
as if stuck
in some desert

someone said
you’re new there
she added

looking at you
with her pale blue eyes
a few months

you said
taking in
her smooth skin  

how dark her hair
how straight
and touching over

her shoulders
you ventured words
are you

the parson’s daughter?
she nodded
rather than spoke

her reply
then looked away
as other kids

came towards
the school bus
and stood back

as they climbed aboard
their noisy voices
drowning out

the ambience
of her being there
like big guns of war

breaking through
the peacefulness
of a pre-war dawn

and you waited for her
to speak again
but she looked back

at the school
as if the audience
granted you

had ended
and you stood there
waiting to board the bus

like all the rest
come on Jane
someone called

and she turned
and climbed aboard
leaving you to stand

and watch
the lifting
of her leg

the black shiny shoes
the white socks
the way her hands

pulled her up
the next step
and you savouring

each moment
of her motion
full of a love

like one
for a work of art
full of emotion.

Lena sits and waits. The artist has
Wandered off, gone to the john or
To a bar or to have a quickie with
The local ****, she doesn’t know.

She’s been here before, the same
Being left behind, the silent studio
Situation, smell of paint, oils and
Other artist’s tools and useful stuff.

She has modelled for others and
They’ve always been the same, being
Lost in another world, stinking of
Turpentine, paint, ***, and all the rest.
She crosses her legs. Sniffs the air.

Wearing the green dress he wanted
Her to wear, her well brushed hair.

She recalls the artist’s antics the night
Before, the want of ***, the fumbling
In the dark, the creaky bed, the banging
Away, all those images left in her head.

She uncrosses her legs. Other paintings
Lay around, some leaning against walls,
Some framed, some not, some sold,
Some recent, all modern, some old.

She wonders if she will be like these,
Left aside, used, done with, her oils dried,
Sitting waiting, her youth has died,
And she waits with the ticking of the
Clock, the moving hand, the hour glass
And the slow running out of life and sand.

I’ll not get over George,
Alice said, not manage
to get him out of my skin
or memory. Her psychiatrist

said she might. ****. Her
word. Heard it someplace.
Not sure where. No, George
she misses. Known him for

years, ever since the work
house closed and they were
dumped in some home for
homeless.  He was partially

blind, saw badly, spoke in
a jumble of words. But she
was drawn to him; first out
of pity, then deeper out of

love. Possible, her psychiatrist
said, love may help whatever
it is. ****. Her word. Heard
it somewhere, not sure where.

She kissed George first; then
he kissed her. Each carried the
work house haunting with them.
Young staff at the home for the

homeless, smirked, spoke behind
their hands. George seeing her
poorly imagined her better maybe,
she didn’t care, at least he was

kissing her and he was right there.
Once they almost did it, but
George fumbled and they lost
concentration. And they gave

that up as a bad job. Best not to,
her psychiatrist said. ****. Her word.
Heard it someplace, not sure where.
Then George died; stiff in bed, his not

hers, heart gave out, the doctor said,
poor Alice, loved mostly, cared much,
all gone, not wed, she alone, missing
George, in her single noisy spring bed.

Chanan studied Shlomit
from afar. She sat
with a man and a child,

talking, smiling at least
on the man’s part.
The child played games

on her mother’s iPod.
Chanan noted unease
in Shlomit’s features,

eyes behind spectacles
looked at the man,
more at the child,

whose tiny nimble fingers
played on.  The man laughed,
teased the child, Shlomit

eased out uncertain smiles,
hand on her coffee cup,
other hand in her lap.

Chanan took in
her sandaled feet,
the red painted toenails,

the hair pulled
into a bun.  
He watched as she

raised the cup
to her lips,
sipped,

gazed at the man,
talked.
The man, legs crossed,

hands holding
a mug of tea,
his head to one side,

seemingly to enquire,
spoke in turn.
Chanan over

his Earl Grey
watched the child
at play,

the fingers intent
on her game,
her mother beside her,

eyed her,
losing interest
in the man’s chatter,

touched
her daughter’s hand.  
Chanan sipped his tea,

looked away,
carried his images
in mind, set

a different scene,
of a different kind.
The man and child

not there,
just Shlomit
and he

setting sail
in a small ship
on a vast wild sea.

Yiska sees
the key turn
in the lock

of the door
of the locked
ward; watches

as nurses
come and go
and the key

turns again
to lock in.
To escape

from the ward
one would need
to time it

for the split
minute of
unlockedness,

but one then
has to run
past the door

left open
to freedom,
if only

for a brief
time moment
until some

overweight
nurse gives chase
bringing you

down like prey.
Yiska knows;
she tried it

to her cost
and bruised hip
and grazed knee

the other
depressing
escape day.

Sonya sips
the white wine
I sip beer

we'd just seen
Das Rheingold
by Wagner

in London
she is blonde
and quite tall

and Danish
what you think?
you like it?

she asks me
yes I did
very much

I reply
I’ve seen all
of Wagner's

Ring cycle
but not in
the order

he composed
why is that?
she asks me

how over
the four years
I’ve seen them

I tell her
she sips more
of her wine

I light up
one of my
cigarettes

and inhale
you know who
Jesus Christ

really was?
she asks me
Son of God

so they say
I reply
no she says

He was God
existing
as a man

with all man's
frail limits
in body

and in mind
Son of God
I tell her

not at all
God himself
no second

close person
just himself
being man

for a short
duration
in our sad

history
of being
then why come?

I ask her
just to be
to try out

our frail case
not to judge
or redeem?

I ask her
to judge what?
redeem whom?

He came to
act out His
acting role

in His own
sad drama
she tells me

Nietzsche said
God is dead
I tell her

so He is
we killed Him
she replies

looking past
her blonde hair
at the bar

I see Christ
beard and all
sitting there

drinking wine
preparing
so it seems

to fine dine
with some dame
dressed in red

alive still
in His role
as actor

and not dead
as is said
but Sonya

doesn't see
and sips wine
and I say

nothing more
but listen
to the tide

of the sea
on a far
away shore.

It’s hot and you don’t feel
Like sitting down to write
The postcard to the parents,

But it has to be done or they’ll
Worry and Father will have
One of his turns and Mother

Will be flapping round like
A **** hen with no head, so
You take a chair by the window

Of the Hotel Cuba and think
What to write, what to put
Down in the limited space

Allowed, and not to write
Anything that’ll stir Father’s
Christian sensibilities or

Mother’s little world of tea
And visits and afternoon naps
And speaking to the canary

Who doesn’t speak back.
You wait for Humphrey to
Come back from the bar

Hoping he’ll come up with
Things to say, but he doesn’t
Show and its getting late

And it’s been a busy day and
The night looms large and
You want Humphrey at his

Best, not too boozed, not
Distracted, and on the whole
He’s quite a fair catch, knows

How to please a girl, keep her
On her toes and back and that
Thing he does with the…Dear

Father and Mother, Cuba’s quite
A place…there was this man
Who kissed my hand and Dear

Humphrey said…the sun’s warm
And the food is out of this world
…I can dance the latest dances

Here, nothing that is suspect or
Need worry you…I will send this
Postcard in the morning, God I’m

Tired, keep on yawning, must be
The heat… You sit back and put
Down the pen and look up as

Humphrey returns doing some
Movements with his feet to some
Music playing and he smiles and

Winks and does a twirl…Sleep tight
Parents…it’s going to be one of
Those night for she's a naughty girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heraclitus,
some Greek guy said it,
I say.

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

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

Where'd you read that?

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

Reader's Digest,
I guess.

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

I know,
I heard you moaning
at your mother.

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

She moans at me
often enough.

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

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

What would your mother say
if you did?

She'd not know.

If she did?

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

Nothing;
just watch the scene.

You wouldn't join me?

And get wet feet?
no, not me.

Spoilsport;
too cold anyway.

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

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

Bring the stones
with you
I said

Helen reluctantly
brought the stones
from the bomb site

(her mother said
about cat's peeing
on the bomb site
and stones)

she held them
in her small hands

where are we going?
she asked

I want to show you
this bombed out place
beyond the tabernacle

are we allowed?

sure as long
as we aren't seen
by the Rozzers
I said

she stopped
I am not
to get into trouble
mum said
not to
she said

we are adventurers
are we not?
we go where
others don't

no trouble
Mum said
she said
looking troubled

she put the stones
in her cardigan pockets
and wiped
her hands
on her skirt

you will get me
in trouble Benny

I won't
I said
I just want
to show you
this fireplace
in the bombed out house

she frowned
what's so special
about a fireplace?

it looks antique
I said
black with patterns
and such

she pushed her
thick lens glasses
back on her nose

I studied her deeply

your hair looks nice

it looks the same
as always
she said
too curly and thick

I like it

if you get me
into trouble Benny
I won't talk
to you again
she said

is that a promise?
I said

she sighed
we shouldn't go
to bomb sites
my mum said
7 year olds
aren’t safe there

I can get you
a 3d lolly afterwards
I said
and maybe
a 1d drink
from the Penny Shop

she looked at me
through her glasses
and tidied up
her hair

OK
she said
but I promise you
about not talking
to you again
if I get
into trouble

take care
of the stones
I said

she nodded
her brown curly
two plaited head.

The Catholic priest came
and gave last rites;
you were comatosed,
though I expect you heard;
they say one does,
even then, shalom, amen.

We held your hands
most of that last day,
one of us staying,
whilst the other
(went for drink or such)
went silently away,
but too long or much.

Puffed up hand and arm,
your eyes closed;
tubes and wires
coming out
here and there;
all those machines
keeping you alive,
pumping away,
softly noisy.

We never gave up
you'd survive,
watched and held
and talked until
the last eased out breath.

A lonely place,
some say, is death.

We were there,
breaking up
at your departure;
didn't want you to go;
but you fought until end,
stoic, silent, Seneca like,
our son, and these hearts,
which no time
or words or prayers
or creed( at this time)
can mend.

Tanya had not seen
the thing from that
angle, she’d only seen

it from her own narrow
gauge of looking, and
of course there was

the blindness, caused
by hate, and he had
after all gone off with

that skinny ****, and
after all the effort she’d
taken to loose weight,

and oh yes, he had gone
and taken her favourite
dress the red one she’d

out grown, and the one
she’d once much favoured,
although she’d only worn

it the once, and now that
thin bean of a girl had it
on, oh how could he, she

spat out, while lounging
in the bath, the water
almost to the rim, and she

there looking at her pink
plumpness, and how her
**** could almost swim, oh

come back, do not leave me
here, she moaned although
there was none to hear her,

except the guy in the flat next
door, but he was kind of queer,
oh where is love when you need

it? and where is some god to protect?
Oh, she said, all my plans are wrecked.

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?

(2010 POEM)

O the rain yesterday
Miriam says
didn't it come down?
I thought once

in San Sabastian
all would be well
and then it poured
I sit next to her

in the camp cafe
others from the coach
were there
some looked fed up

with the weather
I know
the guide said to me
and the ex-army guy

there's your tent
down in the field
and it was pouring
down with rain

and we could hardly see
and the ex-army guy
says to me  
what the heck

I thought
by coming here
I'd get away
from manoeuvres

what's he like?
she asks
he's ok I guess
I say

bet you wish
it was me
in your tent?
she says

be a bit crowded
three of us
not with him
just me and you

o sure
that'd go down
a bundle with him
and others

I say
but I like to think
it was possible
especially as

the ex-army guy
kept me awake
a good part
of the night

moaning about
his mother's
new boyfriend
and how he gets

on his nerves
and how the army
was once his life
anyway maybe later

we can
she says
I nod
and think of her

on the journey
down from Paris
on the coach
her next to me

the dim lights
on the coach
through the Parisian night
us kissing

and such
doing all right.

I show Lydia
the toy Bowie knife
which came

with the cowboy outfit
my parents had bought
for my 9th birthday

and there's a 6 shooter
and holster
and other stuff

I say
we're standing
on the platform

at Waterloo
watching for the next
steam train

to come in
it looks quite real
she says

can I feel it?
I hand her
the toy knife

and she rubs
her finger along
the blade

looks sharp
but it's not at all
she says

handing me
back the knife
I put the knife

into the belt
of my jeans
and we look

for a train
if Hem had that
he'd throw it

at me pretending
I was his
knife throwing

assistant she informs
your brother's a ****
I say

she smiles
what's that?
I think it means

an idiot
I reply
I look at her

standing there
with her thin arms
and straight fair hair

and that always
worried stare
that off grey dress

the black plimsolls
and white socks
here comes one

Lydia says
pointing towards
the far end

of the platform
and I see the smoke
in the air

and the sound  
and the smell
that steam trains have

and we stare
as it approaches
taking in the black

steaming beauty
of it as comes
on by

drinking in
the power
as it lets off steam

huge and noisy
like a dragon
in a dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lizbeth let me out
the front door
while her parents rowed
in the kitchen
at the back

she was still only wearing
her ******* and bra

she wanted me to stay
but I couldn't stomach
her parents finding me there
especially as they
were in a foul mood
rowing

she closed the door
and was gone

I waited for the next bus
back to my house
miles away
and wondered what
she would be doing
back at her place

would she get dressed?
would her mother notice
her own long red dress
had been taken out and worn?

I imagined her back
in her room sulking
because I hadn't
had *** with her
despite her planning
despite her standing
by her bed
in ******* and bra

even when her parents
came home early
she was still up for it

I tried to imagine her
in her untidy room
putting on
the Fats Domino LP
and playing it loud
and prancing around
dancing

my bus came along
and I got on
and paid the fare

but unknown to me
she'd put on
the Buddy Holly LP
and sat
in her ******* and bra
staring
and not caring.

This is where they sat
and watched the sea
and incoming tide.
Now he has gone.

The waves still come
in and go out regardless.
The sunset brings memories.
The way the sun sits on

the horizon like a Buddha
clothed in a red gown.
He held her hand on
these sands. They kissed

beneath that sun the warmth
like an embrace. It was
here that he spoke of love
and their future and the house

and maybe their children
running in and out of the garden
on summer days. She holds
a handful of sand. Squeezes

between fingers. Gulls fly overhead
making an awful din. If she
closes her eyes she can imagine
him still there. Almost smell

his presence. She sniffs the air.
Sea salt and after sun lotion.
His body shining with sweat
after making love up there

by the rocks. Children and
parents and others enjoy
the sea and beach nearby.
He said so many things.

They are still in the air.
The words about her head
like invisible birds. Then came
the suicide. The final note.

Out at sea some one waves
To her from a small white boat.

But I know
she said

that you love me
and you were sitting

by the pond
you with that cheap fishing rod  

which caught nothing
and she sitting there

her hands over her knees
gazing at the still surface

even if you don’t
say it often

she added
laying her chin

on her knees
her green skirt

just above her knees
and you caught

a glimpse of her thighs
where the skirt rose up

I do you love
you said

holding the rod
between hands

it’s just I don’t see the need
to keep on saying it

you added  
stretching your eyes

to go as far
as they could

to get a better look
and she said

why do you come here
to fish when you catch

nothing except a cold
in the neck

and stiff joints
and do you want a smoke?

She pulled out
a pack of cigarettes

and you let a hand free
from the rod

and took one
and she put one

between her lips
and lit it with a pink

plastic lighter
then lit yours

and you both
inhaled and exhaled

the smoke rising
over the pond

seeming to sit there
in the still air

and she said
between drags

I do know you love me
I can feel it

in my bones
and in my tingling

flesh at night
as I lay abed

and you thought
of that image

knowing her mother
would be about

the house
with her stern features

and sharp tongue
and beady eyes

but the image was good
you thought

sitting there beside her
in silence

with the drifting smoke
over the pond

and her hand
touching you

and the sky
turning from

dull grey
to a soft blue.

Mrs Murphy’s third child
Died in her arms. She never
Forgot the feel and hold,
The warmth still there;
The curly hair just beginning
Would grow no more; the eyes
Closed as if in sleep; the lips
Half open imitating half smile,
Small fists semi open gesturing
Welcome incomplete. She would
Not forget; not the looking down
And seeing that; not the taking
Away after the final hold.

You have others to look after
And care for, they said, meaning
Well maybe, but not understanding,
That a baby lost is a loss with no
Compensation, no matter if more
Followed and came from her womb
And lived and grew, she’d always
Remember the one she lost, that
Never grew, that never ******,
Or opened eyes, or smiled,
Or walked or gripped
Her hand: the lost one;
The third one; the lost child.

She shyly smiled.

Bespectacled,
with white blouse
and loose fitting tie,
she waited by the wall,
sitting, ankle socks,
black shoes, laced.

John passed with Rennie,
hands in pockets,
talking about Mr S
in P.E and the lengths
the guy'll go
to make his authority felt
and the country run
later that day.

Sheila watched him go.

Her thin wired spectacles
enlarging him
and focusing him
up for her.

She wanted to follow
and ask him if she
could hang out with him,
but she feared rejection
and so sat
and watched instead
until he and Rennie
were on the school
playing field
during recess.

She played
with her fingers,
looked around
the grounds,
watched other girls
pass by, braver,
more confident
than she,
more aware
of their worth
or what they
had to offer.

Wear this,
her mother said,
wear that,
don't sit so,
keep your knees together
in the presence
of boys and men
while sitting.

John, she watched,
on the playing field
with the boy called Rennie,
taking in his walk,
his gesture with hands,
his nod of head
or and how
the quiff of hair,
can drive her
to despair,
and maybe
much beside,
if her mother's dominance
wasn't there
in side

Remember
Abela
that café
we sat in

in the city square
and you'd be drinking
your white wine
and I’d have my beer

and we'd talk
of the sights
and places we'd go
in a day or so

and about the Greens
and what they
were like
and how he

(Mr Green)
would always
contradict
what she

(Mrs Green)
was saying
like she'd say
it's hot in here

and he'd say
no it's not
it's quite cold
or he'd say

this fish
is under cooked
and she'd say
no it's overcooked

and I’d talk about
Schopenhaur
and you'd sit there
dumb eyed

and secretly fuming
(so you told me
later that day
in bed as you turned

your back on me
and I had to stare
at your rounded
shoulders

and silent ***)
or I'd talk about
or read some
Dylan Thomas poems

to you and you'd
put your fingers
over your ears
and say

enough already
and if I used to
gawk at the waitress
as she went by

you'd give me
the eye
(that no no
kind of look)

and I’d return
my eyes
to my book
but that was over

40 years ago
(where you are now
I don't know)
but I often think

about that foreign place
and you and ***
and your nice ***
pretty face.

That Sunday after church
after singing in the choir
after getting off the bus

and walking into
the small woods
behind your house

the skies opened
and rain fell
and you and she

ran for cover
beneath the trees
the raindrops slipping

through the leaves
and branches
and dropping

on your heads
and clothes
and she said

what will Mother say
this is my best dress
and she laughed

and you looked
at the beauty of her
and the freshness of rain

washing away
whatever sins
may have lurked

on her youthful flesh
and you kissed her lips
and she hugged you close

and the rain fell heavier
and you didn’t care
just standing there

hugging and kissing
the clothes becoming heavier
with wetness

and her dress
clinging to her
revealing her shape

and the outline
of her underclothes
and as you stood back

and gazed at her
and she at you
there was the distant sound

of thunder
and she looked up
and away and shivered

and said
let’s run let’s go
and what may have happened

if the thunder never sounded
and you hadn’t run
you’ll never know.

And Fay is there by the wall
of the playground
-a basement of a bombed
out house cleared

of the upper building-
I step down onto
the tarmac area
and she sees me

and smiles
and I go over to her
and I say
you want to talk

with me?
and she says
yes
so I look around

and see its getting
pretty crowded now
as its recess time
and kids have

had their meals
let's go up
onto the flower
bedding area

its quieter there
so we walk off
and up
and we're alone

except for a few kids
gazing at the flowers
what you want
to talk to me about?

I ask
she looks unhappy
and when I see
her unhappy it tugs

at my heart strings-
or some place
inside of me-
I'm going

to a Catholic school
once we leave
junior school
this year

she says
and I won't be in
the same school
or class as you

why are you going
to a Catholics school?
I ask
taking in

her teary eyes
we are Catholics
and my daddy
wants me to go there

and away
from the Protestant
riff-raff as he calls them
but I like it here

and being with you
and my other friends
but he is adamant
I am going

she says
that's too bad
I say
I'll miss you

being around
and walking home
from school with you
-she lives

in the flat upstairs
from me-
what school will you
be going to?

she asks
almost in a cry
an all-boys school
no girls at all

that will be
punishment in itself
let alone
the tough kids

and teachers
who're mostly
ex-army
I say

we will see each other
though at weekends
and maybe
some evenings

won't we?
she looks at me
with her blue
becoming watery eyes

can you meet me
after school some days?
she asks
sure I can

and her 11 year old hand
touches my
11year old hand
and it feels

warm and soft
and then before
other kids
-especially boys-

can note
she kisses my cheek
and walks way
and I think

God thank you
for the kiss
and lips
and lovely today.

Janice said
she wanted to show me
how well she skipped
with her new skip rope

I watched
as her small hands
held the wooden ends
and her arms

circled like windmills
and her feet
lifted from the ground
in an odd dance

the rope going over
and under
over and under
have a go

she said
no it's OK
I said
let me show you

how good I can draw
my new gun
from my holster
I said

tapping
the toy gun
at my side
a brown hat

(an uncle's trilby)
plonked
on my head
she watched me

her red beret
on her head
the lemon dress
I liked her in

the black plimsolls
touching toes
I took out the gun
and spun it

around my finger
like I’d seen
in the Jeff Chandler films
my old man

took me to see
my other hand
spaced at my side
I put the gun back

in the holster
and on the count of
1-2-3
I drew the gun

in the blink
of her lovely blue eyes
as 1-2-3
bad cowboys

(invisible to her)
fell and died
can I have a go?
she asked

sure you can
I said
so undid the belt
and holster and gun

and handed them
to her
to put on
which she did

in clumsy fashion
all fingers and thumbs
once she was ready
(at her own

female pace)
she said
count me in
so I said ok

and counted 1-2-3
and she went
for the gun
and sent it

spinning
through the air
catching sun light
on the silvery parts

as it fell
to the ground
with a clattering
spark flying

cap banging
sound.

She was there
in the church
arranging the flowers

at the altar end
where her mother said
she’d be when you knock

at the parsonage door
some moments back
and you entered

through the old oak door
into the silence
and smell of age and flowers

seeing her
in her summer dress
unaware you stood there

her hands touching
flowers in vases
moving them into place

an intenseness
on her face
you moved slowly

down the aisle
not wanting to disturb
or cause alarm  

then Jane turned
and smiled and said
I’ve nearly done

and tapped the flowers
in the final place
Where shall we go?

You moved closer
to where she stood
and said

To Heaven
if we’re good
they say

she shook her head
and said
I meant where

about outside?
Wherever you like
you replied

studying her hands
as she wiped them
on her summer dress

how the fingers lay
how some god
brought them

to such beauty
and her eyes
and hair

and her
just standing there
enough

you mused inside
not out
to bring one to a faith

of some creative god
and she said
Why do you stare?

What holds you
rooted there?
Let’s go climb

the Downs and look across
the vast expanse
of fields and trees

and birds in air
just you and me
and this love

just being there
Oh how romantic a mood
holds you today

she said and put her arm
through yours
and moved you on

and down the aisle
between the pews
unaware as youth

too often does
of hours passing
and having time to lose.

Yes, there were flowers and wreaths,
Black dresses, suits, and ties,
And you were shown the place
Where she would lie beside those
She never knew, beneath a stone
Like so many others, the words
Would be chiselled, the flowers placed,

The prayers said, the visitations frequent,
At least at first, but there was that element
Of unrealness of it all, like a surreal painting
Or play, as if all were small bit actors
In some awkward part, genuine in their grief,
In the hurt and loss felt, in the agony
Of the one lost, but feeling it odd,

That she, whom all had loved,
And seemingly blessed by her God,
Should be one moment here and full of life
And laughter, but then be silenced,
Struck dumb, have eyes closed, ears sealed
And stuffed, her limbs stiffened, her hands
Cold and still no longer to hold or bless

Or caress or heal, her heart no more to beat
Or feel, her brain no more to think
Or be the home of thought, and those
Features that all remembered well
In her face, should be gone, and only
Memories left to fill some small part
Of that emptiness within, that huge dark space.

Her mother
at the sink
peeling spuds

I behind
sitting there
in a chair
sipping tea
given me

radio
playing pop
some singer
singing soft

won't be long
she tells me
Milka's such
a slow girl
takes her time
at most things

(I know things
she's quick at
but don't tell
her mother)

I've told her
that you're here
Benedict
but you know
what girls are

I notice
her mother's
wide spread hips
bulging *******
beneath blouse

here she comes
she tells me

and Milka
enters in
sulky faced
arms folded

water's cold
couldn't bathe
she mutters
had to wash
using cold

no matter
Mother says
you're ok
fire's relit
be hot soon

too late now
Milka says
moodily

never mind
Mother says
Benedict
is here now

so we go
out the door
Milka's hand
searching mine
small and warm
heart thumping
mood a storm.

Whatever else
her Polish accent
didn’t do
it didn't stop

her quest for ***
and Benedict
nigh on gave in
one or twice

(who was counting?)
time on his hands
(a rare event)
or caught unaware

and thinking
do I dare?
and he had to admit
even against

his better will
she was
a lovely dame
and such

well?
Sophia said
you want to?
he looked passed her

at the door closed
the bed fresh made
as if she knew
bins all emptied

of their dust
and muck
you want me?
you want to ****?

he looked
at her blue uniform
the greeny top
the tight pressing bra

the eyes ice cool
I don't know
he said
what if some one calls?

or the old guy
comes back
to his room
for some reason

or other?
Sophia stood
always the excuses
always the worry

of others coming
or going
she said
come on

she said
sitting on
the fresh made bed
have me now

make up
your mind
he gazed out
the window

the snow was settled
trees hung
white with brown
not just now

he said
as she spread
herself down
upon the bed

one leg raised
a glimpse of thigh
caught as in a mirror
of his turning eye.

You met Julie
in St James’s Park
as was arranged
(better than some

pokey hole
at the hospital
she’d said)
she clothed in jeans

and open necked
blouse
a thin jacket
on which

she lay
and you’d already seen
the ducks and swans
and the telling

of her latest
cold turkey plunge
and four lettered expressions
of the nursing staff

you lay on the grass
beside her
taking in
the sun

and sky
her talking
along side you
you seeing her form

from the corner
of your eye
she smelt
of oranges

fresh pressed
her voice carried
bittersweet
her hands conducted

in the air
some invisible
orchestra
you remembered

that sexuality
she exuded that day
at the hospital
how it was then

the best *** ever
she’d said
love this place
she said suddenly

breaking out
of her tale telling mood
my parents
bless their

middle class souls
brought me often
as a child and
on she went

words spun like silk
and you laying there
taking it all in
wondering if she’d

break out
of the grip
of her addiction
wondering if

she thought of you
each time she undressed
in that ward
before bed

that best ***
of all times claim
still ringing in your head
where after this?

you said
oh
she said
there’s this cafe

I adore
in Leicester Square
we’ll go there
and that was it

all sorted
except it wasn’t
as such
the future

is some distant land
you may never reach
some shore
you’ve dreamed of

and ached for
many times before.

Ingrid usually wore
the faded grey
flowery dress
that had seen

better days
I saw her crossing
Rockingham Street
I was getting

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

red eyes
hair unbrushed
where are you going?
she asked

getting rolls
for breakfast
I said
how comes

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

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

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

I looked up
Meadow Row
the early morning sun
was breaking

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

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

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

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

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

her eyes
feeding on me
what now?
she said

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

some cheese
and Ingrid and I
went into
the front room

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

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

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

yes Saturday
no school
no need to rush
to get up

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

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

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

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

while I wait
the kitchen table
is down
over the bath

I remember my uncle
sitting there
a few months back
crying

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

some place
he looked
quite broken
for a while

sitting there
on the table
my mother
holding him

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

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

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

the top half
and taking soap
from the shelve
I do

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

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

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

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

the sitting room
to the bedroom
and dress
ready for breakfast

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

just Helen
with her two plaits
and glasses
and me.

We were allowed out
of the coach
to stretch our legs
and have a quick look
around Poitiers
in France

Miriam stretched
her arms out
and kicked out
her legs
almost got cramp
she said

I could have massaged
them for you
I said
I’m an expert
at massaging
away cramps

sure you are
she said smiling
but not
on the coach
it's too impersonal

we walked around
Place de Gaulle
looking in shop windows
and cafés and restaurants

how about some coffee?
I asked

if you're paying
she said

anything for a lady
I said

and what did you want
in exchange?
she said
putting her hands
on her hips

who said anything
in exchange
I just want to buy
you a coffee

she smiled
OK if you say so
she said

so we sat outside
a small café
and ordered
two coffees and cake
and the waiter went off

I lit up a cigarette

what's the book
you're reading
on the coach?
she asked

it's called The Apostle
I said

what's it about?

St Paul

isn't he the guy
who fell from his horse
or donkey
when a voice
called to him
at Damascus?

yes something like that
I said

why are you
reading about him?

he interests me
I said

why?

well he went
from being a persecutor
of what we call
Christians now
to actually joining them
and becoming one
of their leaders

enough already
she said
I heard he
was against ***
and all that

I guess
he was not keen
on the idea

and you want to read
about him?
*** is a brilliant thing
without it
no one would
be here
not even that Paul guy
she said

the waiter brought
our coffees and cake
and went off

beside
she said
you weren't practising
what this Paul guy
was preaching
on the coach last night

never said I was
practising anything
but it was dim
on the coach
and most others
were asleep

she ate her cake
and I recalled
the coach radio
playing some Mozart piece
the night before
while she and I
tried to explore.

She had managed to get out
and met you by the pond

where you had been waiting
and the morning air was fresh

and the birds were in song
and the flowers around the pond

were colourful
and she sat beside you

and said
Had to sneak out

the back way
before my mother

gave me chores
and anyway

it’s too nice a day
to be stuck indoors

and she looked at you
and smiled her bright smile

and you said
Glad you came

don’t like being here
unless you’re with me

it reminds me of you
this place

us being here together
and she said

Remember that time
we were here

and the rain came down
and we got drenched

and had to run to the barn
and shelter

and we were warm
and looked at each other

and then she stopped
and looked at the pond

and at the ducks there
and the bright morning sky

and you said
Yes that was a time to remember

and do you remember
that mouse that ran over your leg

and you screamed
and it echoed

around the barn
as if you were being murdered

and she laughed
and put her head

on your shoulder
and said

I can’t help it
if mice frighten me

and you sensed her head
against you

and wanted that moment
like all moments with her

never to end
but some how

to always to be there
memories and moments

and feelings
and the ducks

and the smell
of the morning air

always to be in my mind
and always to be there.

O
she said
life is such a bore
don’t you think?

I looked at the way
she’d done her hair
such hair
I could nestle

my nose
amongst those locks
and had done
quite often

but she would talk so
and I had those lips
pressed against mine
pressed soft as cherries

against them
like that summer
when we’d managed
to be alone

and were quite content
to lay
in the tall grass
and listen

to the birds sing
and buzz of bees
and she placing
cherries in my mouth

and I in hers
and o
she said
did you hear

about that
Mrs Broad’s daughter?
But the cherries
were in the mouth

firm and round
and the tongue
would move them
around and around

and it kind of
reminded me
of the time
when I mouthed

her teats
one by one
and she said
the daughter’s

in the family way
and the cherries
broke open
and the juices ran

and how that time
after making love
her juices ran
and I said

life is not a bore
at all
life is life
it is we

who are boring or not
and she said
open the window Benedict
I’m too hot.

The old monk
limps into Vespers,

his black robes hang
to one side

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

I inhale the smell
of fresh baked bread

and stale bricks
in the afternoon cloister;

she had kissed me
and opened up

like a young blossom
in sharp Spring.

Dom Charles,
bespectacled,

reads from the life
of Mary Tudor,

as the monks ate
in the refectory;

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

Yiska sat by the window
of the locked ward
looking out
at the dawn light
coming through
the trees of the wood

behind her snores
from the sleepers
coughs
words spoken out
in dreams

she looked back
into the ward
and semi dark
lights from the night nurse's office
smeared into
the locked ward's
space

she looked back
into the wood
and the light of dawn
breaking through
the trees
like an army of ghosts

out there he was
he who ditched her
at the altar
she and her
upside down day
wedding that wasn't
bride who near died
can't live
without him
she'd said
wish I was dead

the light spread
through the trees
******* branches

you're not going to
until after the wedding
she'd said
they never did

maybe that was it?
she asked
the coming light
pushing aside night
because I’d not do it
before the day?
wouldn't let him
have his way?
she said

a voice muttered
behind her
words muffled
by snores

out there
somewhere
he's there
he who betrayed
(he hasn't turned up
I’m afraid)
the best man's words
let lose
like angry birds
flapping
about her head

I want to be dead
she had cried
and almost died
(handful of pills
all sorts
colours
types
strengths)

the light was spreading
through wood
burn it all
nothing now
(she said
recalling Auden)
can come
to any good.

You can’t get the stink
Of the hospital
Out of your mind, that
Aspect haunts as
Much as the mindless
***** (who handed
You your dead baby)
Who had icy eyes
And a hint of so what
Written there framed by
The blonde hair, the blue

Eyes and all around
Inside your head the
Buzz of flies. You can’t
Get the colour scheme
Out of your turned back
Memory, the walls
And doors and window
Frames, the nurses and
Doctor’s faces a
Whirl and buzz, and you
Holding onto your

Dead baby’s name there
Amongst discarded
Other names, wanting
The hold to last, to
Feel the soft parcel,
To want her then to
Open eyes, to breathe,
To prove them wrong, to
**** them in their chilled
Cosiness. You can’t
Get the baby out

Of your hurt mind, can’t
Forget the last hug,
The wanting for her
To cling on, to take
Your dug and **** and
****, but she never
Did, never moved, not
Opened eyes; that’s when
It aches the more, that’s
What brings the deep cries.