I sat opposite her
on the train
the carriage rocking
side to side
as trains do

the art gallery visit
still in mind
Matisse Cut-Outs
and else beside
to please the eye

I gazed at her slouched there
against the carriage side
sleeping
mouth open
fish out of water mode
clutching her pink handbag
a necklace of sorts
about her neck

her short shirt
raised up her thighs
her legs askew

Asian I thought
black hair straight
cheek level

the guy beside her
unconcerned
looked away

wonder what she's dreaming of
if she dreams at all?
I thought
whom she loved
and if she did
and where she lived
and where she came
from and when
and did she prefer
girls or men?

I drank her in
each aspect
of her being
from black haired top
to slip on shoes
and all between
that could be seen  

the carriage rocked
it's gentle rock
her head moved
in a no not now fashion
her mouth still open
taking in air
of crowded space
that snub nose
upon her face

the guy beside her
glanced at her
and gazed at me
then out the window
went his gaze

I wondered whom
she held in dreams
or waking life
was she some one's lover
some guy's wife?

not at all romantic
in that pose
child-like in innocence
a sleeping babe I suppose
I mused

I studied how her legs
slow swayed
to the train's motion
such stocky thighs
not fat or flabby
but kind of welcoming
to the eye

still she slept
mouth closing briefly
then open again
to capture air

some dream taking place
behind the eyes
and in her mind

I sat opposite her
on the train
the art gallery visit
some distant place
this was my new art
this dame's vacant
sleeping face.

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

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

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

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

Yehudit stands
by the small bridge
that goes over
the stream
at the back
of the church.

There's a moon,
bright as a torch
in the sky,
a handful of stars
sprinkled above.

I come out
of the vestry door
after choir practice;
I see her there
and walk over to her.

What are you
doing here?
I say.

Waiting for you.

The others come out
of the vestry door
and walk on the path
around the church
to the front;
some look over,
but then walk on.

Why?
what's the matter?

You didn't look at me
in class today.

I did;
I couldn't help
but see you.

Not in the sense
of just seeing,
but in the look you gave.

What look I gave?

She looks away
into the distance;
into the dark fiends
and far off trees.

An indifferent look;
a look one gives
if one doesn't want
to see someone.

I rack my brains;
notice her jawline;
the wind-swept hair.

I always want to see you.

Didn't seem like it,
seemed as if
you were talking
to that Rollands boy
and not giving
the look
you used to give.

I can feel a sigh
coming on,
but hold it back.

You are imagining things;
I was talking to him
about some picture
in the art book.

What picture?

Mm mm...just a picture.

She looks at me;
her eyes all searching.

Trust him to get you
into such nonsense
as laughing at art pictures;
what was it?
Some **** painting?

Yes, some guy
called Renoir;
she looked a dish;
bit like you in fact.

Is that what you thought?
Why laugh, then?

Because he said
what if you were
to strip off now?
And what would
Mr P say?

She looks away
at the darkness again.

I'd never do that;
can't see why women do.

They’re models;
it's what they do;
show off
the female form
in all its beauty.

She turns around
and stares at me.

So men can lust
after them;
make rude comments
or suggestions?

Pretty much,
I say,
looking away,
seeing the gravestones
caught in moonlight.

Is that
how you see me?
Something to lust after?

Most of the names
on the gravestones
have eroded now,
just the odd name
or letter remaining.

No, not lust after,
love after;
want for being you.

You talk utter crap
some times Benny,
you utter such
puke of words.

I look at her;
there's phlegm
on her lower lip;
I am tempted
to wipe it off,
but don't;
I watch it hang there.

She wipes it off
with the back
of her hand.

I suppose a kiss
is out?

A car ****** goes.

Reverend M
is waiting for us
in the car,
she says.

No kiss?

She pushes past me,
along the path;
I follow her
taking note
of her lovely ***,
the sway of her,
the whole being of her.

In the car,
at the back,
we sit together,
in the darkness,
behind the vicar
and his wife,
and her lips kiss me,
hot kiss,
cold lips,
and her hand
grabs mine tight
and squeezes;
some kind of heaven;
outside hell freezes.

Sophia sits
on the end
of Mr Haff's bed
as I am at the sink
tidying his towel

shouldn't you
be cleaning
the other rooms?
I ask her

she looks at me
with her icy blue eyes

przelec mnie
she utters in Polish

I look uninformed

**** me
she translates

I cough and look
at the sink
a stain
by one
of the taps

this sink
needs a good rub down
I say

you not fancy me?
she says
ignoring my statement
about the sink

sure I do
but not here
not now
I say
wanting her
to move
so I can make up
and tidy
the old man's bed

why not now?
we should live
for the now

I am busy now
and this is not
the place

she pouts
pushes a hand
through her blonde hair

you take me
to pictures?
see film?

maybe
if you go
clean elsewhere
I say
hoping she'll move
from the bed

good film on
we can go see
she says

ok we can see it
but now
can I have
the bed clear?

she gets off the bed
slowly making sure
I see plenty of leg
in the process

there is your bed
she says

thank you

I go clean
other rooms?

yes
go clean
I say

tonight
after picture show
we have ***?

I wanted to stay in
to wash my hair
but sure ok
I say
wishing her to go

she smiles seductively
and wags her behind
as she leaves
the bedroom
of Mr Haff

silence and peace
and the impression
on the blue cover
of the bed
where she had sat
on the bed

I brush it away
smoothing it out
but the image
is stuck
in my head.

It was the day after
I’d been to London
on a protest march
and Netanya said

I want you
to come
to my place
this afternoon

as I want to talk to you
my husband will be out
I was hesitant
not out

of any moral quandary
or in case
her husband found out
or that her kids

might come home
from school early
but because
I usually liked

to chill out
in the afternoon's
with a glass of scotch
and listen to Mahler

but I said
ok what time?
any time after 1pm
he's gone by then

she said
so forsaking
my scotch and Mahler
I walked around

to her place
and she let me
into her lounge
and offered me

tea or coffee
I took the coffee
and we sat on her sofa
and she talked

and I listened
then she took hold
of my pecker
and said

we could have ***
no one is here
no one need know
my pecker woke

from its slumbers
reluctantly
and lay
like a grumpy sailor

after a long voyage
not just now
I said
it wouldn't be right

besides daylight
isn't my best time
she looked at me
with her disappointed eyes

her hand
still holding the pecker
why not?
she said

what if your old guy
comes in
and we're going it some?
he won't

he never
comes home early
too keen on the skirts
at work

what if your kids
come home from school
and find me and you
in the process?

we'll be done by then
she said
I shook my head
and she went

to the record player
and put on
a Dolly Parton LP
and sat beside me again

my pecker still lay
slumped unhappily
another time maybe?
she said

sure
I said
only not here
not in your house

or bed
it doesn't seem right
she pulled
a face of discontent

where then?
your place?
no way
my mother

wouldn't like it
I said
where then?
Netanya said

London?
I said
London?
she repeated

go to London for ***?
we can take in a show
and find a cheap hotel
and tell your old man

you're going to London
with a friend
to see some show
and it will give you cover

she sighed
and sipped her coffee
I sipped mine too and gazed
at this middle-aged lover.

What it was,
was her father dying.

Part of her
had died, too,
she said.

I had been phoned
by her son,
Mum's in a state,
he said;
Granddad's passed away.

I got back as soon
as I could, train and taxi,
driver yakking
about the weather,
and his holiday
on the never never.

And there she was
on our bed,
half undressed,
half not,
gazing at the wall
or window
or so seemed.

He's gone,
she said
without turning
her head,
suddenly it was,
Mum said,
just like that.

She whimpered gently,
sobs escaping
like bees in spring.

I sat on the bed
and stroked her thigh,
saying words, words
meaning nothing,
but trying to comfort,
but failing
as words do.

Will there be
a requiem mass?
I asked.

She paused a sob.

Suppose,
she said,
turning her head,
her red rimmed
eyes staring,
he was a catholic
of sorts, but of sorts
passed caring.

Her father was dead.

I knew him
hardly at all,
a meeting or so
and drinks the once,
few words, Irish lilt,
supping his beer.

I loved him,
she said,
he was my rock,
my anchor.

I knew
they rowed a lot.

The same
in temperament,
outlook, non diplomatic,
eye to eye, unblinking.

She turned away
to face the wall,
the sobs returning,
her body moving
to an inner grief.

I sat gazing
at her turned
away head,
part of her jaw
and cheek.

What it was,
was her father dying,
she wanting
to see him again,
but not believing.

Derek said
she smells peculiar
and don't she's
brush her hair?

I was standing with him
in the playground
by the steps
that went down

into the bombed out
cellar of a house
which was where
the playground was

I like her
I said
watching her walk
hesitantly around

the groups
of boys and girls
in game or conversation
bet she's got

lice or fleas
or whatever
he said
she's got an old man

who beats her
and a mother
who doesn't care
I said

well she could at least
wash properly
he said
despite the hardship

and such
my mother
let her bathe
at our place

the other Sunday night
I said
didn't find
no lice or fleas

she had said
just dirt and grime
you didn't bathe
with her then?

Derek said laughing
no she bathed alone
my mother making sure
she was washing ok

Derek looked over at her
still smells peculiar
he said
it's the soap

we gave her
to take home
I guess
fancy a game

of cards?
he said
taking  football cards
out of his back pocket

sure
I said
and so we went down
by a vacant wall

and flicked our cards
to see got nearest
the wall and see
who won

whose cards
but out
of the corner
of my eye

I saw Ingrid
walking about
the playground
her dull flower

patterned dress
having seen
better days
her scuffed shoes

shyly making tread
should be with her
I thought
but carried on

playing cards
with Derek instead.

I kept your last
birthday card to me;
tucked it between
books on my shelf,

not knowing then
it would be the last;
your small simple script
and name, artwork done,

received with all the rest
that day, last year.
I have taken it out
a few times now,

read the script over
and over, as if maybe,
more words
might appear,

than those before.
I hold it in my hands
and imagine where
your fingers touched,

where your pen
scribed the words,
and for that frozen moment
capture part of you again,

that feel, that ghostly smell,
thinking maybe
my fingers are, where
your fingers were,

your DNA mixing with mine,
mixing together
like good scotch, not wine.
I shall keep

your birthday card to me,
keep it safe, re-read
now and then,
pretend each year

it came from you,
anew, fresh written,
your fine small hand;
waiting each birthday

for it to land,
the birthday card
from my eldest son
(now dead), and when

my birthday comes around
once more, I shall take
the card out and read
with all the rest that came,

keeping you you always
in my heart and head,
with your small scribed,
loving name.

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

Don't finish until late.

What about after?

Need to get a bus home;
I get tired.

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

When's your day off?

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

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

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

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

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

Ok, I’ll be there.

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

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

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

He's got a wife
and daughter.

He's back
and gives her a stare.

I best go,
I say,
see you Thursday.

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

I was in the laundry room
sorting through
some old guy's washing

when Chana came in
and closed the door
behind her
with her plump ****

fancy seeing you in here
she said
she had her hair
in a kind of Beehive style
her big blue eyes
were ******* me

got to get this washing on
Sidney gets through
so much in a day
I said

she walked around me
and went to the window
and stared out
at the kitchens
over the way
then turned
and faced me

you look
good enough to eat
she said
especially
your lovely thighs

yes well
I am rather *******
at the moment Chana
but maybe
another time

the washing machine
came to the end
of its cycle
and I took out
the wet washing
and dropped it
in a large white basket
then put in
Sidney's soiled clothes
and put in the soap powder
and closed the door
and pressed the button

can't spare me
a little time?
she said

she was behind me now
and as I turned
she pressed herself
against me
her full bust
was pressed
against my chest

I’ve things to do
I said

she put her hands
around my waist
and hugged me close

I know you have
she said sexily
her breath
eased out
her words
and they floated
on the air

look Chana
I need
to get down to business
George is waiting
for his bathe
and I need
to run the bath for him
I said

you need
to get down to business
with me
she said

she placed her hands
around my thighs
she kissed me
on the lips
my pecker moved
my eyes closed

I opened them
when her hands
touched my ****

not now Chana
go look after
one of the old dames
I’m sure one of them
needs to bathe

O forget them
this is now
they're yesterday

no they need you
I can wait
I said

she released me
disappointedly
and stood gazing
at me

don't forget
to come around tonight
she said
and bring
a bottle of *****

sure
I said
going out the door
I’ve nothing else
to do or lose.

Some days
it seems
so unreal-

your demise-

as if it
hadn't happened
at all,

was just some
weird dream
that repeats
night after night

and that when
you awake
every thing's all right;

but it's no dream-
a nightmare maybe-

because it's real-
your demise-

I saw it all
before my eyes

my son-

the bright lights
within you

going out
one by one.

Miss Pinkie
opened the door
of her flat.

Ah, you brought
the whiskey, then,
good, now we can
really go to town,
she said.

I followed her
down the hall
into her lounge.

Take a seat,
I’ll get us
some glasses.

I sat down
on the white sofa.

The small lounge
was warm and cosy;
the few watercolour prints
were on the wall.

I thought the whiskey
would be a good idea,
I said.

Sure is,
she said,
coming into the lounge
with two glasses
and the whiskey bottle
under her arm.

She sat down
and poured us
two large drinks.

I sipped mine.

Shall I put on
some music?
She asked.

Sure, whatever.

She got up
and took out
an LP and put it
on her record player.

Mahler's first,
she said.

Ok,
I said.

She sat down again.

We sipped our drinks.

The music played.

Within ten minutes
she was all over me
like spilt spaghetti;
hands on my thighs,
legs, body, flies,
kisses on my cheek,
lips, neck
and still Mahler
played on regardless.

She paused
and sat back,
breathless.

I sat partially
undressed.

Not getting
any younger,
she said.

She wasn't;
she was already
nineteen years older
than I and looked it.

I think the bed
would be more
comfortable,
I suggested.

She nodded,
breathing hard.

She took me
by the hand
into her
darkened bedroom,
moonlight was in
at the window,
lighting up
part of the bed.

We lay down
next to each other.

I could hear her
breathing as she
finished *******.

I undressed, too.

I hope she doesn't
die on me here,
I thought.

What would I do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and gloves
my mother knitted
and my jeans
and two jumpers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what good would it do? she asked,
Knowing it made none,
Not as far as he was concerned;

He just burned
With the odd deep angst,
And pulled and punched,

And spoke his mind,
As if anyone gave a dog’s hair,
And only she

Knowing where it’d all end,
Sat staring at the moon,
Listening to some singer croon

From the radio,
Feeling the last blow
Fade away,

Until the next one
Tomorrow, or some other day.

The plump lady
who occupied
with her behind
the front two seats

of the green bus
has passed away
and no one went
to her lonely

sad funeral
except a priest
and the lady
from the sweet shop

who sold Sally
the plump lady
dark chocolate
bars each morning

and cigarettes
and the old man
who lived next door
who used to peep

through net curtains
as she undressed
in the evenings
and others sit

where she once sat
and sunlight shines
into the bus
where she once sat

and others sense
the morning heat
that she blocked out
by sitting there

whom none talked to
but all would stare.

She holds the dead child
her arms heavy with the loss
grief leaks through fingers.

He goes to Rome
tomorrow,
the young monk,

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

by the refectory door;
she opens herself
to me

like a forest flower
even in
my holy sleep.

The old monk
turns in his dying,
the church bells

chime him
the hour
in a steady peal.

He had thought all girls the same
Different only in name,

The figure size,
Or the colour of their hair,

But she was different from the rest,
She drove him to despair

With her deep blues eyes
And gorgeous gaze

That stunned him
And haunted him for days.

Batel was showing me
how to fold up
my shirt sleeves
although I knew how

I liked her fingers
touching my arm
her eyes searching me
as she did it

got it?
she asked
sure it looks easy
when you do it

she walked off smiling
and I watched her
wiggling backside
move away

I carried on
with my work
at the nursing home
making beds

tidying up
the rooms
taking some
of the old guys

to the lavatory
or for a bath
or talking with them
about the old days

about their war
trenches
bombs
dead friends

mud
lice
and old Sidney
singing the Red Flag

loudly as he bathed
his croaky voice
very moving
and I sang along

to make him happy
but it was Batel
who came to me later
and said

how's the shirt sleeves?
they’ve come down again
I said
shall I do them

again for you?
that'd be good
you are flirting
she said smiling

I’m working
I said
yes
on me

she said
as if I would
I said
she folded up

my shirt sleeves
and I sensed her fingers
on my skin
maybe you could

come to my place
she said
for a coffee sometime?
you're married

I said
I’m asking to coffee
not to marry me
she said

ok
I said
be good
and she went off

wiggling that backside
of hers
Hey Benny
old George

called to me
take me to the bog
I'm in need
of a ****

ok George
I’m on my way
and I thinking of Batel
and a promise of a kiss.

O guess what I've heard
Anne said
that fat nun
the one with moustache
well she's leaving

I looked at Anne
her one leg swinging  
as she talked
the stump of the other leg
hidden by her red skirt
where's she going?

God knows
and he's not said
maybe she's going
to be a missionary
or join the Tiller Girls
and dance for a living

I smiled
the other kids
were on the lawn
on the slide or swing
some were on the grass
playing or sitting talking
Sister Bridget was talking
to the tiny Sad girl

Anne gazed at them
get me out of here Kid
the sight of them
makes me
want to throw up

where to?
I asked

the beach
yes along by the beach
let me see the sea
she said

I sat there looking
at her wheelchair
now?

yes now Kid
I want out of here

I looked over
at Sister Bridget the nun
what if she sees me
pushing you out
the back gate?

let her see what
she wants  
I want to see
the fecking sea
she put on her
Don't Argue With Me face

Ok
I said
and got up
from the chair
and began pushing
the wheelchair
on to the path
leading away
from the nursing home
to the back gate

she wasn't heavy
but I was not over big
and thin
as a *** paper

where are you going?
the nun asked
coming over
to where we were

the Kid here
is taking me
for a short jaunt

where to?

just the end of the garden
through the avenue of trees
I said
see the birds and flowers

the nun looked at Anne
is that right?
she asked

would he lie?
Anne said

the nun looked at me
her dark eyes
peering through me
I tried to look innocent

well don't be long
lunch will be at 1pm
then it's afternoon sleep

Anne said nothing
put on her
lost little girl features

ok Sister

the nun walked off
I pushed on

keep an eye
on the penguin
don't think she bought
the tale

I pushed her along the path
between the trees  

is she looking?

no
I said
she's gone in

good let's get a move on
to the sea Kid
to the sea

so I pushed her on
through the gate
hoping we wouldn't be long
and not be late.

That is where the Torney’s live,
You mutter to the room, staring from
The window at a house through
The winter trees, I’ve played there
Many a time before that happened,
You add, your voice almost a sigh,
Your hands laid flat on the windowsill,
Feeling the smooth wood beneath your palm.

You’ve just that moment arrived to stay
With your aunt and have run to the room
You always stay in and nothing has changed:
The white flowered curtains are drawn back,
The bed made with clean stiff starched linen,
The same picture on the wall of ducks
On a pond dusted and cleaned,
And the same view of the house beyond
The wintry trees and the grey cold sky.

You told no one about what happened
At the Torney’s; let nothing slip, kept
Your small mouth shut and sealed as you
Had promised, but you no longer go
And play at the Torney’s now, and even
Though aunt asks why you make excuses
And only stand and stare unable to forget
What happened in that cold house there.

Bird song
and the sun
high in the sky

and Yehudit seeing
from your bedroom window
the garden
and the orchard

you can see
the bus go by from here
she said
gives us time

no bus yet awhile
I said

she looked back at me
on the bed
my mother thinks
I am working
all day today
but I have a half day off
Yehudit said

I gazed at her figure
the hips
the waist
the hands
on the window sill
her hair brown
and loose

we have time then
I said

she nodded
and came to the bed
and lay down
beside me

how much time?
she asked

hour or so
before the bus comes
I said

she looked
into my eyes

there's a guy at work
I like
she said
well he doesn't work there
he delivers stuff most days

I looked at her blue eyes
does he know
you're here with me?

no of course not
we're not an item
I just said I like him
she said

maybe you
should be with him
and not me
I said

I am only saying
she said
I like you too
but we don't see each other
that often these days
and I see him
every day

I lay on my back
and stared at the ceiling
so what happens now?
I said

we could make love
she said
I chose to see you today
I could have gone home

two years ago
it was just us
and that first kiss
I said

we were kids then
and at school
now we're at work
and see other people

I guess

I smelt her perfume
not her usual
different
more powerful

she kissed me
let's make us
she said
not argue

our lips met
her hand
touched my thigh

O heck
I said
to hell
with this other guy

and there was bird song
and the sun
was high in the sky.

I wish we could be
alone more
Yiska said
we sat looking across

the playing field
school in the distance
modern building
glass and brick

and concrete
me too
I said
the sun allowed us this

if it had rained
we would not
have been here
sitting on the field

we'd be stuck inside
the hall
kicking our heels
or classrooms

doing puzzles
or games in boxes
boys kicked *****
girls sat talking

in groups
loud laughter
there are always eyes
out here

she said
tongues wag
gossip starts
I dreamed of you

last night
I said
I dreamed we were alone
in my room

side by side
in my bed
I wish I shared
that dream

she said
I dreamed
of my mother
and her low mood

and her moaning
about my room
and the untidiness
and she jabbing

my back
with each word
some boy scored a goal
between coats

on the field
and boys yelled
what did we do?
she asked

leaning closer
when?
I said
in your dream

she said
I don't know
I said
I woke up

and left the dream
in my head.

Janice sat on the grass
of Banks House with me
it was Saturday afternoon
we'd been to

the morning matinee  
seen some films
and cartoons
and had ice cream

in one of those
small tubs
with a wooden spoon
that kid

actually put a knife
to your throat
last Saturday morning?
she said

yes some blonde loon
while I was going
for a ****
got me from behind

and grabbed my hair
and held the knife there
and wanted money
what did you do and say?

she asked
wide eyed
and mouth ajar
I bellowed

HELP
SOME *******'S
TRYING TO
CUT MY THROAT

she moved back
at my sudden bellowing
pigeons took flight
from nearby

some coal man
over by the coal wharf
looked over
what did he do?

she said
he pushed me
into one of the stalls
and ran off

I caught sight
of his blonde hair
and tall frame
as he went out

the door
gosh that must
have been frightening
she said  

it was
all I had
was 6d left
not worth

getting
your throat cut for
I said
would you

have given him the 6d?
I guess so
but my instinct
was to bellow

so I did
he might have stabbed you
she said
yes he may

have kissed my **** too
I didn't think
I just bellowed
did you report it?

yes
my mother
and my old man
went to the cinema with me

in the afternoon
and I gave a description
as best I could
of the kid  

I said
what happened then?
she said
don't know

my parents had a talk
with the manager
and I looked
at the small photographs

showing what was on
the following week
she looked at me deeply
but they let you go

to the cinema again
this week?
she said
of course

can't hide from life
can't let one incident
spoil fun for you
I said

she had that puzzled
look on her face
I noticed she was wearing
the lemon dress

I liked
the one with flowers
and her hair shone
in the afternoon sun

can't let
no idiot
I said
spoil your fun.

What was that
all about, my son?

What happened there
while I was elsewhere,
Ole, my dear one?

Where did that sneaking up
on tiptoe death come from?
From what dark passageway
or behind from which
dowdy curtain did it spring?

Had I known,
I would have not
gone home,
I would have fought
to hold you back,
would have held you close,
not let you loose.  

I still see that short ward,
the hospital smell,
that shadowy corner,
the off-white bed,

you bent over,
head down,
puffed up,
breathing hard,
whispering words,
unable to take flight
as wounded birds.

The ward is still
and quiet.

Yiska slips
out of bed
and tiptoes
to the window
and looks out
at the coming dawn.

A few snores
and moans of sleep
are behind her
from the other beds.

She feels empty.

She wants something
to matter,
but nothing does,
not the dawn light,
not the other patients
in their beds,
not she herself.

A light filters through
the trees outside.

The sun is weak,
the moon is fading.

She pulls the nightgown
tight around her.

The carpeted floor
beneath her feet
is cold.

She feels tired,
but cannot sleep;
sleep seems elusive
as if
it were hiding
from her.

The night nurse
is in the small office
off the ward.

She is typing.

The tap tap
of her fingers
on the keys.

She hears the tap tap.

She wishes Baruch
was there.

He is asleep
in the men's ward.

Sometimes they meet
at this window
and watch
the dawn come.

Last time they talked
in hushed voices.

How are you?

Low.

Me, too.

Have you tried to hang
yourself recently?

No, not recently.

That caused panic
the last time.

I wasn't aware.

I was; nurses
running around
like headless chickens.

Baruch had smiled.

Didn't think
of consequences.

There are always
consequences.

He nodded at the window.

You slit
your wrists again?

She looked
at her bandaged wrists.

Yes, but did it wrong,
so they told me.

He stroked
her bandaged wrists
with his thumb gently.

Why?

Why what?

Why do it?

Same reason as you,
I guess.

Yes guess so.

Now her wrists
are unbandaged.

Baruch sleeps.

She is alone.

The nurse still taps.

Someone whimpers
in their dream.

The ward
is still and quiet.

She slips back along
to her bed
and lays there
counting sheep.

But still no sleep.

Your memorial stone
is in the design of a book,
my son, apt words
have been put,
chiselled into granite,
skilled hands, tools,
keen eye, words set,
meanings and sentiments,
heart felt, soul grieved.

Picked and bought
you a plot up
at the far end;
pretty much quiet,
birds nearby,
a tree a little off
to the side,
not crowded in
as some plots are,
none too near,
not too far.

It will gut me up
to see you there;
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
as the good book says;
watery eyed I’ll stand
and talk and listen,
remembering the old times,
you still too young to go
as dates on the stone will show.

Book memorial stone
as a reminder,
not that reminding
is in need, never forget,
or feel less pain,
that like the memorial stone
will remain.

It is you
whom I seek
in the long hours
of the night.

It is you
whom I wait for
in the dawn’s
dull light.

It is your voice
I listen for
in all bird’s song;
thought you
were for always;
I was wrong.

I want to hear
your laughter,
chuckle and wit,
but though I listen,
there’s not one bit.

There is
the loud laughter
of world and ways,
and pointless chat;
but we close it off;
want none of that.

I feel along the clothes
that you once wore;
but nothing is the same
as it was before.

His ashes are here,
the dame said,
soft tones,
but blunt words,
reminding me,
that you are dead.

Sure the world goes on,
turns blindly
on its way,
come night
dark and cold,
come dull day.

Sure the days will pass
and others’ appetites
and passions burn,
but it is you,
and your being
here again,
for which,
my son,
I yearn.

Enid holds
the boiled sweet
Benny gave

in her hand
she opens
and closes

her small hand
feels paper
on her skin

sticky smooth
on one else
gives her sweets

but Benny
she's hungry
no breakfast

that morning
her father
had said no

too naughty
go without
now she sits

in the school
lavatories
the boiled sweet

in her palm
her stomach
grumbles noise

feels sickly
she unwraps
the boiled sweet

with fingers
and puts it
in her mouth

sweet juices
sugary
explosion

of flavours
on her tongue
she ***** it

turns it round
swallows down
the juices

on the wall
someone's inked
Mrs M

has a big
white bottom
Enid *****

more juices
then swallows
the boiled sweet

her stomach
still rumbles
as she looks

at paper
slightly soiled
by her feet.

I rise at the break of dawn,
said Sister Clare, I rise
like the lark into morning sky,
my arms out stretched like
the wings of a bird in flight;
I leave my bed, I leave my
dreams for the owls of night.

The bell rings, the voice of
my Groom calls, His voice
softer than a falling leaf, His
words enter my mind and heart,
His love fills me, touches each
part of my deepest self, echoes
along the strings of my nerves.

I dress like one for a wedding,
clothe myself with simple array,
black and white and grey; my
feet are simply clad, sandals
sans stockings or tights, my
hair hidden from sight, my
face alone is seen by the world.

I walk along the cloister like
one in love, my Groom awaits
me in the chapel, His arms
spread wide, His hands nailed
to the large wooden cross; His
eyes are closed, His heart is open,
His love flows from His wounds.

I go to my place in the choir, I
open my book of prayer, I sing
His praises, sensing Him there,
my Love, My Groom, my dear
Wounded Lamb, my King of Kings.
My  lips sing to Him, my voice
steady as one in flight, my hands
would feel His pain, His wounds
I would bathe, I would cleanse.

My heart is His, my life, my ticking
time of deed and thought, my body
is His, my waking hour is His to
tell or take, to let me sleep or wake.

I go about my day, I do my deeds,
I work and pray, I think of Him as
I do my chores, think on His coming
hour, His raising the dead, His sadly
separating sheep from goats, as the
Good Book said, I think of His healing
touch, His firm words upon the air,
I sense Him near, I feel His hand upon
my brow, I wish He would come to me now.

I miss you
coming in
and out each day;

I miss your quiet
presence as you stood
and thought;

I miss you standing
behind me as I write,
your soft spoken words
as you pointed out
an error in my work.

I miss your being here,
your wandering
from room to room
looking out for food;

that laughter,
that way you had
with wit and humour.

I miss you, my son,
miss the being of you
in my life.

I miss the presence
of you as each day
goes by;

I know you
are there
as I silently cry.

Gareth skimmed a stone
from the beach across
the incoming waves.

That's how you do it,
he says, following
the stone's ride.

The Prior sitting
on the beach
in his black habit
and brown sandals,
stares, unperturbed.

That's how
some people see life:
something to slim over,
not delve into.

I sense the wind
touch my hair;
a bell
from the abbey
bell tower rings.

She wanted
more of me;
I sensed her
**** me off.

The Belgium monk,
lights candle
after candle
by the abbey altar.

His tonsured head,
his deep set eyes,
scanning the high hung
Christ hanging there
by two chains;
outside
the downfall
of heavy rains.

Netanya
threw a cup
threw a shoe

hitting you
stormed and swore
jabbering

about this
about that
how this dame

at your work
was somehow
having you

(sexually)
then she threw
someone's coat

missing you
ran up stairs
calling names

looking round
for objects
to throw down

you went up
(cautiously)
step by step

trying to
calm her down
what's all this?

you asked her
unaware
of the cause

of the wild
eruption
you know what

seen her name
in your book
(your work book)

you've ticked it
ticked her name
she went in

the bedroom
you followed
she threw things

scent bottles
her hair brush
slapped her hand

round you face
you grabbed her
held her down

on the bed
to calm her
who is this?

what's her name?
she told you
laying there

on the bed
you don't think
she and I

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

Netanya
informed you
well you're wrong

about that
the reason
that her name's

in my book
is because
I caught her

shop-lifting
yesterday
at the store

wrote her name
for records
in future

Netanya
stared at you
is that it?

you nodded
just a girl
stupid *****

stealing shoes
she sat up
on the bed

calming down
got it wrong
about you

she muttered
have we time
for some ***?

In what's left
of my own
lunch hour?

she nodded
looking sad
OK then

I muttered
my left cheek
still stinging

and my head
bell ringing.

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

Dom Peter turns
the large key
in the old lock.

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

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

Judy was in the store
and I found her at the back
filling shelves
and I said

how's it going?
and she said
O so so
not like it was

at school
there
you could have a laugh
here everyone is

O got to keep
the customers happy
got to keep them
coming back

she placed the last
of the tins
on the shelf
and paused

you still get
to sit by our lake?
she said
now and then

I said
not as often
as we did
but I have to work

now too
and time gets eaten up
by the work time
you remember that time

we sneaked there
after school
and it was summer evening
and we sat there

watching the sun go down
through the trees
like a departing actor
after a big scene?

she said
sure I do
I said
and the shadows of birds

going off to sleep
and bats
she said
O how I hated

those things
beginning to flap
about over head
and that time

you kissed my neck
so unexpectedly
that I screamed
and it echoed right

through the woods
like I was being murdered
she smiled
and looked around the store

don’t have a laugh any more
it's all so serious here
the staff
the customers

just wish
it was as it was
maybe we
should meet up again

one evening
by the lake
and see the sunset
as we once did

I said
the store manager
came by
and said something to her

and she picked up
some other tins
and began filling
another self

what's he say?
I asked
the *** said
I wasn't

to waste company time
in idle chitchat
anyway
she said

I'd like to get
to the lake one evening
as we used to
maybe Thursday evening

I looked at her hands
holding the tins
how I once held them
and kissed the fingers

one by one
sure
I said
that will be good

we agreed a time and date
and I left her there
giving the manager
a cool eyed stare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

behind the ear
was bent
so I straightened it
for him

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

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

calling me names
but fighting is
a rough thing
she says

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Coltrane LP
by my side.

What's beyond
the horizon?
She asks.

Black space,
dead stars
and maybe planets.  

But beyond them,
what's there?

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

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

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

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

The drug issue
is not going so well.

I see her arms
are punctured anew.

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

I can see you back
to the hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Benny wheels
Anne’s chair
up the path

between trees
the sun bright
overhead

other kids
on the lawn
by the home

riding swings
or the slide
move on Kid

Anne says
out the gate
on the beach

Benny grips
the handles
pushes hard

through the gate
on the path
to the beach

have the nuns
seen us yet?
Anne asks

don't think so
Benny says
Sister Luke's

not looking
she's as blind
as a bat

couldn't find
her backside
with both hands

Anne says
the tide's out
Benny says

this is it
Skinny Kid
this is life

he watches
her one leg
sticking out

from her dress
her leg stump
out of sight

push me there
Anne points
to the sand

near the edge
want to smell
the sea's scent

hear the sound
of the waves
on the shore

he pushes on
over sand
deep ridges

as he goes
looking down
at her dress

the stump shows.

Fay showed me a book
as we sat
on the grass
outside Banks House

it was a black
covered book
with blue
and white strips

of ribbon
to keep a page
you were on
she thumbed the pages

with her small thumb
and finger
there’s a lovely prayer
in here

she said
I try to remember it
but it doesn’t stick
in my brain

my daddy said
to remembered prayers
but I find it hard
to make them stay

just make them up
as you go along
I said
don’t suppose

God cares
if you make them up
as long as you mean
what you say

she looked doubtful
Daddy says
to remember prayers
like the Pater Noster

and Ave and such
she said
what’s this
Paster Noster

when it’s at home?
sounds like
a race horse
I said

it’s the Lord’s Prayer
she said
it’s the Latin way
of saying it

I took out
my toy 6 shooter
and rubbed the barrel
on my jumper

don’t pray at all  
you don’t?
well not often
I said

I figure God
has enough people
praying to Him
without me

adding to His chores
she looked at me
her fair hair
tied prettily

with red ribbons
her blue eyes
fixed on me
do you like my gun?

I asked
my old man
got it for me
in some toy shop

as it was going cheap
she looked
at the gun
Daddy said

guns are
the Devil’s weapons
she said
real guns probably are

but this is just a toy
only kills pretend
bad cowboys
although I did shoot

Wyatt Earp
once or twice
I said
she looked back

at her book
and thumbed
more pages
Daddy said

I ought not
to see you
she said
not looking up at me

why is that?
I asked
he said
you’re a Jew boy

and a bad influence
she said softly
I see
I said

she looked at me
and smiled
but I like you
and seeing as

Daddy is away
it is safe
to talk to you
I gazed at her

lovely eyes
pale
a kind of pale
light blue.

I would have-
if I’d known,
if God had shown,

but I went home,
the last chance blown.
Often think

of that evening,
you-
you

as you
always were,
but ****** puffed,

breathing bad,
looking tired,
and I-

as you,
unaware,
death lingered there.

I would have stayed
had I known,
would not

have left you so.
Regrets are negative
and drag one down,

you'd probably say,
no one likes regrets,
let them go.

Even on
the brightest morning,
when the best birds sing,
and the sun is out
bright and strong,
and my mind
is planning what to do,
I miss you.

Even at the mid of day
when I am sorting lunch
and getting some writing
on the way,
trying to move on
from the blue,
I miss you.

Even when I laugh
at some TV show,
or cry at some hospital
tales old or new,
I miss you.

And at evening time
When sun has set
and moon is out
and glowing
and the sky
is neither black
nor blue,
I miss you.

I miss you
for being you,
not some abstract self,
not just someone
I used to know,
but you, my son,
you, and with palm
blown kiss,
I say:
It is you I miss.

The enormity
of the grief
pushing down

on the aged shoulders.
Words fail me
seemingly,

one word in front
of the other,
like one learning

to walk again;
word utterances,
seem so banal,

so ordinary,
do not do justice
to the feelings felt.

Your words,
last of which,
ok or don't know,  

are kept in mind
or memory or on
cell phone click.

You-
the best of-
to go

in such a way.
Dark ward,
lone bed,

at the far end.
What philosophy,
what faith,

what hopes
can make amend?  
We were there

at the final sail
of ship's departure,
my son,

hand holding,
arm stroking,
whispered hopes

sent to air's feel.
Your death,
untimely,

unbelievable,
in comprehensive,
still.

I was there
when Yizreel died.
He'd had
his third stroke.
He looked at me
with his dull eyes,
but he never spoke.

I nursed him after his first,
aided him through his second;
the voice surviving,
a lame left wing,
walking with a slide
of leg and stick.

You take good care of me,
he said, like a good son,
better in fact, not out of duty,
nor the the wages, I expect,
I'd hear him say,
in what they pay.

I loved him like a father,
a grandfather I didn't have;
washed him, dressed,
shaved and brush his hair;
he pretending all was well
as if he didn't care.

I attended his funeral;
sat amongst his family
unnoticed by most,
except by his son,
a tall thin man, here,
he said,he's a fiver,
for work you've done.

I was there when Yizreel
died his death;
a closing of his dull eyes
and ease of breath.

Why did you meet me
from school?
Fay asked
as we walked along

St George’s Road
I got the bus this way
after I left school
and thought I’d stay on

and meet you
nice of you
she said
that’s me

I said
nice guy
she laughed softly
I hate school

some days
she said
only some days
I hate school all days

I said
we walked on a bit
in silence
what happened today

to make you hate school?
I asked
Sister Bridget said
that there’s no salvation

outside the Church
she quoted St Augustine
and that’s a bad day?
I said

who’s this St Augustine guy?
sounds a happy guy
he was a saint
of the Church

she said
which by definition
means you are ******
sounds pretty much

what my teachers
tell me
I said
no I’m serious

she said
she was
her eyes were tearful
I pray for you

she said
I asked Sister Luke
to pray for you
she’s my favourite nun

we went down
the subway towards
the New Kent Road
her voice echoing

as she talked on
about  this nun said this
and what nun said what
I thought of the kiss

on the cheek
she gave me
the other day
the one I said

I’d not wash away
which I did accidently
the other morning
half awake

and thought
o God
I’ve washed
her kiss away  

maybe I thought
she’ll kiss me
another cheek kiss
but she was still talking

about damnation
and about some guy
called Dante
and some fire

her soft voice
moving along
the walls
of the subway

as if it were *******
along the walls
trying to find
a way out

into the afternoon sun
she stopped
and so did I
and she kissed me

on the cheek
another one.

We lay in the long grass
summery flies
bees

butterflies
Jane named them
one by one  

I lay
watching her finger move
pointing them out

cotton wool clouds
water colour
blue sky

the best scene
my father says
the sky

above our heads
she said
he says some painters

study skies
to soak them up
into the art

I watched
as her hand turned
palm towards me

the headline
heart line
then down

beside her
in the long grass
out of sight

London skies
were pretty much
grey with smoke

or ***** blue
like soiled linen
I said

you must be glad
to be out
of London now

she said
looking at me
her dark eyes

lit up
like black olives
in cream

yes I am now
after this
I said

not saying
how her presence
made it more so

I love this
she said
this air

this scene
these butterflies
us being here

her fingers
reached out for mine
in the grass

fingertips touching
a Gatekeeper
she said suddenly

her finger pointing
skyward
as a butterfly

touched
the water colour
blue sky.

I think I saw her once
Walking by the bridge

With her collar turned up
Against the wind

And her hands
Stuffed in the pockets

Of her coat
To keep them warm

And breath from her lips
Rose like incense

In the chill November air.

The bus moved away
from the bus stop
and Fay sat next to you

her body rocking
side to side
with the motion

of the bus
her knees pushing
against each other

her hands in a prayer like pose
upon her knees
Are you going

to the cinema?
she asked
Yes

you replied
The Globe
That old fleapit?

she said smiling
her lips parting
showing

small white teeth
What are you going to see?
A cowboy film I think

you said
Why don’t you come too?
I can’t

I haven’t any money
she said
Besides my dad

wouldn’t like it
he thinks films
are the Devil’s work

she looked out
at the passing view
you studied her thumbs

rubbing over each other
her nails pink
and polished

like small shells
He needn’t know
you said

I wouldn’t tell
she turned her head
and said

I would know
and he would know
by the look

in my eyes
he knows I always
tell the truth

and never tell lies
you put a hand over hers
and her thumbs

became still
and her hand
touched yours

Maybe one day
she said
I will.

Yiska folds and unfolds
a small piece of paper.

Her fingers are nimble;
I watch her
from the armchair
by the window
of the locked ward.

My eyes focusing
on her standing there;
her concentration
on the task at hand
quite neat.

What you doing?
I ask.

It's his last short note
about not showing
at the wedding;
about leaving me
at the altar.

She folds it small,
then unfolds it;
her fingers having
that determination
about them.

Why did he do that?
Why not just say
before hand
he couldn't go
through with it?

She folds it so small
it's tight as tight.

Because he's a *****;
has no backbone;
no sense
of letting others down.

Bit of a clown.

More than that:
a complete ****.

I watch as she unfolds it,
and opens it wide,
and tears it
into small
confetti-like pieces
and drops
in a waste bin
by her feet.

She rubs a scar
along her wrist,
white against pink,
where the blade slit,
where the blood
was let slip;
gushed,
not drip drip drip.

Maybe
it was the way
she sat
or the way

her head
titled slightly
or the promise
in her eyes,

dark and mysterious,
that outshone
the midday sun
on the school field;

I sitting there
next to her,
half shy
half opening up,

talking the talk,
eyeing her over,
taking in
her eyes,

the nose,
the lips partly open,
tongue moving
just along the edge.

Maybe
it was the scent
she wore,
applely,

flowery smell;
her small *******,
pushing against
the white blouse,

the buttons
under pressure;
her hands on
her thighs at rest;

her dark hair,
brushed just so,
and she spoke,
but I half listened,

half not,
caring not
how well she sat,
she cool,

I, oh boy,
so hot.

The first kiss
I remember
from a female

was some girl
on a bus trip
to the seaside

back in
the 1950s
when I

was about
9 years old
and I happen

to be sitting
next to her.
I don't know why

she kissed me
but it was nice
in a way boys

of nine
think
of kissing.