Come-
Yehudit,
let me see your eyes,
I’ve not seen them
since that far off sunrise.

Let me see
your brown hair,
let me feel it
between my fingers,
touch the strands
with finger and thumb.

Come-
Yehudit,
let us laugh once more,
let me see you walk
in the long grass,
by the pond,
sitting and watching
the ducks swim,
listening to the birds sing.

Let us watch
until the stars
become dim or die.

Listen-
Yehudit,
my long ago love,
I was sad to hear
of your cancerous death,
your too soon demise.

Come-
Yehudit,
let me see your smile,
let the sun sit
in your shade
for a while.

Remember that first kiss?
That embrace,
lips meeting,
us close,
face to face?

That summer
after school,
sitting in the tall grass,
us alone,
bright sky,
a steam train
going by
to some place,
us talking,
kissing,
blessed
by another's grace.

Remember
Yehudit
the first kiss

that Christmas
beneath moon
and far stars

lips to lips
bodies close
the others

singing songs
or carols
while we held

out of it
as lovers
on the edge

of the world
now you're dead
claimed back then

by cancer
Yehudit
remember

you amongst
the far stars
the bright one

brighter than
moon or sun.

Jane's in the church,
helping to sort flowers
in vases.

I stand at the back,
watching,
not wanting to disturb,
smelling the ancient bricks
and wood and flowers.

She's in a world of her own,
her fingers nimble,
dedicated.

I sit down
in a side pew,
look up
at the wooden roof,
the arches,
the side columns.

Her father is by her,
talking quietly,
pointing out,
and she smiles
and then looks back
and sees me.

I feel as if someone
grabs my heart
and squeezes;
my whole being freezes.

She comes down
and sits beside me.

Didn't know
you were coming?

Your mother said
you were in here.

She nods,
looks up
at her father
at the altar,
then back
at me again.

I have finished now;
we can go for a walk.

Ok, that'd be good.

We get up out
of the pew
and walk down
the aisle towards
the back of the church.

She pauses
and looks back.

Funny if in years to come
we were walking here
after we were married.

I nod, but feel odd;
never think
that far ahead,
I muse,
but say nothing.

We walk on and out
of the church
and into
the warm sunshine.

My father saw you
and told me
you were there.

Does he mind?

Of course not;
why should he?

No reason,
just wondered.

My mother told him
you were ok;
she likes you.

I smile and we walk
down the narrow road
towards the farm.

How do you like school?

I don't;
I feel out of place there
after London.

You'll be ok
once you settle in.

I had a fight
my first day.

I heard from a girl
whose brother
heard about it;
I thought that meant
you were trouble,
but I understand
the boy started it.

I finished it,
but we're friends now,
I add.

She smiles at me
and her hand
touches mine
and it's like
I’m alive
for the first time;
my heart going
thirty to the dozen,
my whole being buzzing
like swarm of bees.

No one else knows;
no one else sees.

If could raise you
like Lazarus
from the grave,
I would my son.

If I could hold you
once again
in warm embrace,
and feel your beating heart,

the pulse of life
in veins and nerves,
I would hold you close
and hear

your whispered words
whatever
they may be,  
my son, our Ole.

But I cannot,
all that I can do,
is keep alive
your memory

in mind of deeds done
or words spoken
or wit and humour expressed,
or be brought memories

by photograph
or music's tune
or place, until still
such time,

beyond the dull
world's philosophy,
we meet face to face,
my son, our Ole.

We are
temporal residents.
Where we live,

how much we have,
who we are,
are just

temporal factors.
We can take
nothing

with us
except our souls,
and if you

don't believe
you have one
of those

then you
have nothing
at all.

Put your finger
on this place
Nima said

putting my finger
on the puncture holes
on her arm's skin
where the needles
pushed in

that's my feed holes
that where I get
my kicks
and buzz from

I felt it
coldly warm
young
and smooth
yet slightly rough

we were in
Trafalgar Square
sitting by the fountain
it was 1967
I’d bought a new
Coltrane album
from a record shop
and had it
by my feet

you're lucky I’m here
she said
the fecking doctor
didn't want me
out of the hospital
until I could prove
I was trust worthy
what a laugh
she said

glad you are here
I said
I’d have waited
if you never showed
or gone
to the hospital
to find you

she lit up a cigarette
and gave one
to me

we inhaled
watching people
near by
pigeons
water splashes
heat from the sun
other bodies
laughter
snatches
of other conversations

they wouldn't
trust you there
she said
not after the ***
in the cupboard thing

I smiled
no one saw

no one saw
but they guessed after
she said
and that nurse
(who probably
doesn’t get any)
was quite funny
with me after
eyed me over
like my Mother does
when she comes
which is rare  
what's the record?
she asked

pointing to the LP
by my feet

a Coltrane record
jazz player
I said

if I didn't have
to get back
and I had money
I’d take us
to that cheap
hotel again
and do the *** thing

I need a fix too
need a feed

she sat
and inhaled

and I watched
a couple nearby
kissing
out of the corner
of my eye.

Yehudit paused
momentarily
on her way
to the store

her husband
at her side

she looked over
it was him
by the fountain
sitting there

older now like she
but still he
Benny

she tried to take in
what she could

the Elvis quiff of hair
had gone
and what was left
was greying close

he had a stick
holding it
against him

her husband
looked around
but didn't comprehend
the rush of blood
to her head
her quickening
of pulse

she walked on
Benny had seen
and smiled
and she smiled back

almost within
that school girl again
seeing him
and that first kiss
that Christmas
many decades before
moonlight
clouds
grey

some were singing carols
but he and she
ah yes
that was something else
she recalled

but no more
and she
and her husband
entered the store.

I would have placed my lips there
in Eve's dark valley
but Adam returned too soon.

They'll say that God had need of him
Before his time,
That angels sought his company

For beauty's sake
In mind or soul,
That stars will shine far brighter

In the night of all their dread
Now he's dead at 29 years old,
And they must feel the cold

Of his departure all the more,
Like one whose ship has left the shore
For far off places,

They must have his face in mind
To keep as photograph,
In silver frame,

Until such time
That he and they
Are once again in arm's fond hold

And all the love returns
To cease the cold
And lonely days of aching grief.

Art
is like

a universal prayer
in the language

of colour,
shape,

design and pattern,
but with an

infinite span
of interpretations

seeking
an answer

An old friend
once told me
Benedict

you only have
the day now
yesterday

has gone
tomorrow
is a promise

that may
not come
live each moment

as if
it were
your last

and make
the lives
of others

better
for having
known you

and felt
your love
and concern.