I sat on the front doorstep
with Lydia
of her parents' flat
on the ground floor
looking onto the Square

she had her thin chin
in the palms
of her small hands

her mother's words
still hanging in the air
from moments before

Paddington Railway Station?
you want to go all that way
to see a ****** train station?

yes
Lydia said
we want to see the trains
that go to Scotland

her mother stared at us
as if we started speaking
in a foreign tongue

it isn't Paddington
it's King Cross train station
she said

is it?
I said

yes it is
she said
I should know
her dad goes there
now and then
but not often enough

can we go there?
Lydia asked

what for?
her mother said
all that way
just to see trains to Scotland?

yes
we said jointly

and how are you going
to get there
walk?
she said

go by bus or train
I said

have you the money?
because I sure haven't
she said

or underground train
I said
be quicker

have you the money then?
her mother asked

I stared at her hair
pinned in curlers
red lips
arms folded
cigarette in between
her fingers

I can get some
from my old man
he'll give me some
I said

if you can get the money
Lydia's mother said
you can go
but don't be late home
or I’ll slap your backside
my girl

and she went in
and slammed the door

I looked at Lydia beside me
well are we going?

will your dad give you
the money?

I've got some
in the blue
metal money box
he made me
I said

enough to go
to Kings Cross station?

should have

wish we had enough
to go to Scotland
she said

maybe one day
I said smiling

she looked at me
let's go then
she said

so we got off
the front doorstep
and made out way
across the Square
leaving her mother's
words behind
smelling adventure
in the air.

Without God we cannot and without us God will not, Sister Bonaventure, the Italian  said, in R.E  at the school, where Fay sat looking at the nun's plump features and a second chin that lay on the nun's wimple. Cannot what? a girl said from beside Fay, a thin girl whose hand was raised above her head. Others stared in Fay's direction as did the nun. What do you think it means, Gloria? the nun asked, her dark eyes peering at the girl. The girl shrugged her shoulders. Salvezza, the nun said, salvation. Fay took the word and tongued it in her mouth like a boiled sweet. Salvezza. The other girls in the class sat mute; some looked at each and smiled either out of indifference or bewilderment, but Fay sat straight-faced, the words in her mouth, both Italian and English. Salvation? A girl asked, pushing her luck, seeing the nun's features harden like cement on a hot day. To be saved, the nun said, saved from damnation. The girls all Catholic and bought up from the cradle knew this, but it was a hot day and they had lost interest as soon as Sister Bonaventure had entered the class with the ease of a hippo into a muddy swamp. But Fay took the words and packed them away inside her head to **** upon in her nightly hours when she failed to sleep. After school, walking along St George's Road, she saw Benedict standing by the subway waiting for her. He stood with hands in his pockets, his school tie untied, hanging loose, his shirt collar unbuttoned. She smiled when she saw him; her stomach did a somersault; her eyes moved over him like hawks seeking prey. He smiled like Elvis, which he had mastered by studying the photograph in the paper and had cut it out and sellotaped it to his wall. Didn't know you were going to meet me, Fay said, thought you said you were busy. Benedict smiled. Wanted to surprise you, he said. Did you run home from school to get here by this time? No, got the bus, he said. She touched his arm with her thin fingers, felt the cloth of his school blazer. He looked at her; took in her fair hair, straight, but pinned at the sides with hair slides; at her eyes that were as pure as silk; at her features that he wanted to capture in his mind so he could conjure up in bed at night when he found it hard to dream about her. She looked past him, making sure her father-who didn't like Benedict- wasn't around; making sure that her father wasn't amongst the crowd across the way or in a passing bus. They walked back towards the flats together, side by side, hands not touching, but close, near touching. She told him of her day at school, about the Italian nun and the words that she had captured that day in R.E lesson. Salvation? he said, taking the word and moving it around his head and mouth like a puzzle to be solved. Sounds like something you put on if you've got a sore spot, he said. She smiled. It means saving our souls from sin and the consequences of sin, she said. They walked down the subway side by side, the words echoing along the walls. He looked at her as they walked, his hand near touching hers. Sins? What are they when they're at home? he asked, probably knowing the answer, but wanting her to say. Violation of God's will, she said. Violating our relationship with God, she added. He allowed his knuckles to brush against hers gently, letting her words float about his ears. Violate God's will? He said. She nodded. Defy, God's will, she said. Mm-mm, Benedict said, got you. Whether he had or not, Fay had no idea, she sensed his knuckles brush against hers, gentle, soft, skin on skin. They came out into the late afternoon sunlight, on to the New Kent Road, passed the Trocadero cinema, their hands brushing close. Changing the subject, before Fay could venture further into the words, he said, do you anything about periods? She stopped by the entrance to the cinema and gazed at him. Periods of what? History? Geographical times of changes? She said. No idea, a boy at school was talking about it, said his big sister was having her periods and was a dragon when she was, Benedict said, gazing past, Fay, at the photographs in the framed areas inside the cinema walls. She blushed, looked at the photographs, too. How old are you, Benny? She said. Same as you, twelve, he replied, taking in the photo of a cowboy, at how the cowboy had his guns set in his holster. And you don't know? she said, shyly, looking at him, blushing. He tried to copy the cowboy's stance ready to draw his imaginary gun from imaginary holster. No idea, he said, looking at her briefly before gazing at another photo. What do you learn in biology? she asked. O usual ******* about plants and sunlight and butterflies and bees and so on, he said. About butterflies or birds, then? he said, taking in the cowboy's stance again. Yes, she said quickly, not wanting to elaborate further.  They walked on passed the cinema and the used car area and walked over the bomb site towards Meadow Row. So what's the connection between this kid's sister and ****** birds or butterflies and periods? Benedict asked. She shrugged and smiled. Ask your mum, she said, she might know. He smiled, leaned down, picked up a few stones from the bomb site for ammunition for his catapult later, guess so, he added, taking in her blushing features. They paused half way across the bomb site and stared at the the coal wharf where a few stragglers of coal men loaded up the lorries and wagons again for last bit of business. He wanted to kiss her, but didn't want to take the liberty of just plunging his lips on her cheek as he'd seen them do in the cowboy films. She watched the coal men at work. She sensed him beside her, his closeness, his hand brushing against hers, skin on skin, flesh touching flesh, but she didn't want her father to see her touching Benedict's hand, because he'd go mad at her. I  want you to focus on your school work and what the nuns tell you about matters, not gallivanting with the likes of him, he said last time he saw her with Benedict, even though they lived in the same blocks of flats, he downstairs and she upstairs. Likes of him? What did that mean? She mused, looking away from the coal men and taking in Benedict beside her. God knows what her father would say if she kissed Benedict and he saw them. A few years ago he would have spanked her, but nowadays he just threatens her with it. Benedict turned and looked at her. Are you coming to the cinema for Saturday's matinee? Don't know; depends, she said. Depends on what? he asked. My dad and what he's up to and if he'll let me, she said. She paused, looked past Benedict to see if her father might be around. What's wrong with Saturday matinee? Benedict asked. She looked at him. Daddy thinks it's sinful to stare at those kind of films, although he did take us to see the Ten Commandments with Yul Bryner and Charlton Heston  a few years ago, she said. But you've been with me before, Benedict said. I know but only if Daddy's away on business or is away on religious retreat. Benedict raised his eyebrows and pulled a face and pouted his lips. She smiled. See what I can do, she said, looking over at Meadow Row making sure her father wasn't in sight. He wanted to kiss her, but didn't want just to plunge at her as he'd seen them do at the cinema, but what to do? She gazed at him, her body tingling for reasons she couldn't fathom. Best get home I suppose, she said, in case Daddy's there wondering where I've got to. They walked on across the bomb site slowly. Could I? He asked, pausing by the wall of  bombed out house. Could you what? Fay asked. Benedict looked at her. Kiss your cheek? She blushed and looked around her then back at Benedict. Why would you want to kiss my cheek? She asked. I've seen cowboys do it to women in films I just wondered what it was like, he said. Is that all? she said. All what? He said. That reason? She said. No, he said, looking past at the coal wharf, I like you a lot, wanted to show you how by kissing you. She felt out on a limb, beyond her comfort zone, yet something about it seemed satisfying, the gesture, the idea, the reason he wanted to kiss at all. She knew she was blushing, knew that her body was reacting in away unknown to her before. She looked across at Meadow Row, at the people passing over the way. Do I dare? She asked herself. What if Daddy sees? Not here, she said, maybe on the staircase of the flats if no one is around. He nodded, looked at her, touched her right hand, warm, silky soft. He wasn't sure of himself as he usually was; felt as if he were in bandit country and bad cowboys were at large. They walked on down Meadow Row, passed the public house with doors open and the smell of beer and a piano playing out of tune, passed houses and the crossed over by the corner leading into Rockingham Street. Their hands were apart from each other just in case. Her father in her case and other boys seeing, in his case, thinking he was breaking the schoolboy code into cissiness. They walked up the ***** and into the Square and walked towards the block of flats where they lived. She talked about Sister Bonaventure and sin and he talked about the boy's sister's period problem whatever it was. Half way up the second staircase landing they paused. Now? He asked. She looked up the stairs then down. Ok, she said softly. He kissed her cheek, damp, soft. She looked at him, then for reasons she didn't know she drew him to her and kissed his lips, then let him go. What happened to her or him they didn't understand just felt the inner glow.

Reynard and I
held back
after biology
while the other kids

had gone
and we walked up
the corridor
I could have scored that goal

lunchtime
if Goldfinch
hadn't got
in my way

he's always
where you don't
want him to be
Reynard said

I saw Jeanette
walking ahead of us
with her blonde friend Angela
Jeanette had class

I thought
her friend
was a short
mouthy girl

but Jeanette
was quite reserved
and looked at you
as if you had stepped

in her sunshine
but I liked her
and that quick kiss
I snatched the other day

still felt stuck
on my lips
Angela had short tight
blonde curls

Jeanette had long
dark hair reaching
her shoulders
I gazed

at her thin figure
her arms by her side
the satchel
over her shoulder

Reynard was still talking
about the football lunchtime
I was looking
at Jeanette’s sway

of hips almost unseen
yet visible
to the trained eye
the way her legs

came down
to her well heeled shoes
the white ankle socks
think we ought

to try get Frazer
on our side
he'd be great in goal
better than Dunton

the prat
he couldn't save a goal
if the ball
was as big as he was

Reynard said
yes we must get Frazer
I said
wondering how I’d get

that kiss
that Jeanette promised
the lips tempting
and her cheek

just visible
the place my lips
touched
the other day

and the kiss
just stayed there
and wouldn't
go away.

Lizbeth *****
her finger
imagines

it belongs
to the boy
Benedict

with eyes closed
savouring
each flavour

part salty
vinegar
(having ate

fish and chips
earlier)
tomato

of ketchup
the red thrills
***** deeper

whole mouthfuls
of finger
thinking on

that church pew
old dark wood
where they could

but didn't
have made love
she ***** slow

finger length
the painted
finger nail

salty still
each flavour
so distinct

even in
her chosen
warm darkness

of closed eyes
she passes
over both

her knuckles
warm wet skin
imagines

so hotly
between thighs
him within.

Helen pushed
the second hand
doll’s pram
over the bombsite

off Meadow Row
Battered Betty her doll
was tossed
from side to side

there there
Helen said
can’t be helped
you walked beside her

practising drawing
your silver coloured gun
from the holster
your old man

had bought you
from the cheap shop
through the Square
you hit back

the hammer
one two three times
just like that
I can’t get her to sleep

Helen said
stopping by the ruins
of a bombed out house
she tucked the doll in

with the woollen blankets
her mother had knitted
Mum said to take Betty
for a walk in the pram

but she still won’t sleep
you put the gun back
in the holster
and pushed back

the black hat
your granddad
had given you
have to keep her quiet

around here
you said
there might be Injuns
and they scalp hair

off babes and kids
and such
Helen looked
around the bombsite

looks deserted to me
she said
pushing the pram away
from the bombed out house

you never can tell
you said
they hide  
and when you’re least

expecting it
they come screaming
over the plains
Mum said you’d make

the best husband
for me
Helen said
coming to a halt

opposite the coal wharf
you drew out
your gun again
and fired shots

over your shoulder
that’s nice of her
you said
twirling the gun

over your finger
and then back
into the holster
Mum said

you would make
a good dad
one of the horse drawn
coal wagons moved away

from the coal wharf
and clip-clopped
along the side road
perhaps

you said
we could get our own
house on the prairie
or one of those houses

off St George’s Road
with the big gardens
Helen got
Battered Betty out

of the pram
and rocked her
over her shoulder
patting her back

and said
yes and I could milk
the cows and you
could hunt buffalo

and we could sleep
in one of those
big beds
with buffalo skins

over by the main road
a red number 78 bus
went by
and dark clouds

crowded
the less
than blue sky.

During his afternoon break
and her half day from work
they met at the back
of his house by the woods

where the corrugated
iron garage stood
she in her grey skirt
and white blouse

and summer jacket
and he in blue top
and jeans and hair
combed in the Elvis style

slightly greased
she talked of the store
she worked
the customers

the manager's moans
the poor pay
and he listening
as they walked

through the woods
hand in hand
she animated
her voice clear

as dawn's light
he liking to hear
sensing her mood
thinking of the school days

the year before
how easier it was
back then to meet
that time in the gym

at school in lunch hour
and later
that hay barn adventure
and that time

they got caught out
in the rain
and were drenched
and how his mother

let her dry and wear
other clothes she'd saved
they reached the edge
of the pond

and stared out
and over the watery skin
the ducks
the swan who'd

settled there
and they lay
on the grass
dry as hay

flowers weary
from the afternoon heat
birds singing
from branches over head

and she lay back
taking in the sky
hands behind her head
and he lay beside her

commenting
on passing clouds
the shapes
and what they were

he sensing her there
her hand
her body close
to his

her raised leg
the way her thigh was
the eyes of her
gazing upwards

the blue gazing
at blueness
and he thinking
of that time

by this pond
they last came
and she kissed him
until his lips

were sore
but now she lay
and talked of clouds
and what the shapes

may be
or of work
and how it tired her
no kissing of lips

or caressing hands
on flesh
just the lying
the idle talk

the sky above
the slow
seeping away
of a former love.

Holy Saturday. Lulu softly rubs her
Black rosary held between fingers.
The church cold and dark. Waiting
For the light. The candle brought by
The priest and others of his ilk to bring
Light to the darkness. Rudandoff stands
Still silent in shadows watching her
Outline in candlelight’s glow. Lulu feels
Smooth wood on fingers and thumb
Mutters her pure prayers watching
The candle light up the darkness.
Rudandoff smells her the scent
Touching him the shine of her hair
Caught by passing light her profile
Moves him her moving fingers stirs
His dark embers stiffen his manhood.
The holy candle brings light to the
Church. The priest and others chant
Out the long prayers. Lulu’s soft lips
Kiss the crucified Christ on her crucifix
Warm lips on smooth wood. Rudandoff
Wishes those were his kisses his manhood
Between her moving fingers her tender
Body beneath his hot frame. Lulu closes
Eyes imagines her Christ blue bruised
And beaten hammered and battered
Gazing through eye slits bringing her true
Love never forsaken. Rudanoff’s hot lust
Swells in the darkness his sausage fingers
Want to reach and touch to squeeze and
****** to greedily **** her female juices.
Holy Saturday. She finds her love’s light.
He loses lust’s kiss and burns in darkness.

At Auschwitz she died.
Some say along the wires
Her sad soul sings still.

Anne stands
on crutches
in the queue

to be weighed
by a nun
in the home

for sick kids
Skinny Kid
she whispers

to the boy
just in front
if I win

the choc bar
I'll share it
just with you

if you win
who will you
share it with?

you of course
he replies
in soft voice

other kids
up the front
fail to put

on more weight
so don't win
the choc bar

it's you now
Benedict
a nun says

Skinny Kid
stands steady
on the scales

you've put on
5 ounces
she tells him

he gets off
of the scales
and Anne

crutches up
on one leg
her stump swings

underneath
her red dress
steady now

the nun says
Anne stands
as steady

as she can
you've put on
7 ounces

the nun says
so you win
the choc bar

Anne smiles
and crutches
herself off

of the scales
the nun puts
the choc bar

in Anne's
dress pocket
let's go Kid

Anne says
and they go
out the back

on the lawn
she crutching
to the far

white table
and white chairs
with the Kid

beside her
making sure
she's ok

he pulls out
a white chair
and she sits

the Kid sits
beside her
and they share

the choc bar
between them
12 ounces

gained in weight
between them.

Mid June
during lunch time recess
after cheese sandwiches
in the science room

which doubled
as a sandwich
lunch room
you met Christina

on the playing field
where she was sitting
alone on the grass
her school friends going off

when they saw you
walking across the field
their eyes on you
their giggles filling the air

like seagulls taking flight
don’t mind them
Christina said
as you sat down

beside her
they’re just jealous
because I have a boyfriend
and they haven’t

you looked over
at the departing girls
walking off in a huddle
some doubled over

in laughter
I don’t mind them
You said
count myself lucky

I didn’t land
with one of them
Christina looked over
at the girls

heading towards
a group of boys
kicking ball
doesn’t your friend like me?

she asked
what friend?
you said
that Reynard boy

you walk around with
you looked at her
and took in
her dark hair

brushed smoothly
her eyes catching
the sunlight
he doesn’t trust girls

you said
he thinks
they’re like icebergs
icebergs?

she said
yes
he said you only see
the surface of girls

its what you don’t see
that’s dangerous
she frowned
I thought

it was what you don’t see
that held the interest
depends what’s hidden
you said

well you know
what most boys are after
what they can’t see
on the surface

she said
beginning to blush
looking away from you
and you studied

her profile
the way her hair
touched her cheek
and hid her ear

and lined up
with her jaw line
the open neck
of her white blouse

the skin there
the slight protrusion
of small ****
through the grey cardigan

maybe it’s what’s hidden within
that’s more important
you said
maybe

she said
turning back
and gazing at you
maybe it’s all that’s hidden

that matters
she added
putting your hand
on her thigh

you sensing
the warmth of sun
and the feel of pulse
beneath the skirt

the beat of heart
pushing her tides
maybe
you said

smiling at her
what a girl shows
is as good
as what she hides.

She sleeps as only girls sleep
dreaming of babies and diamonds
or how that rich guy got away.
She slumbers with lips pressed tight.

Her eyes flicker like flames of
a new touched fire. Her hands lay
like guardians over her womb,
beneath her dress. She dreams
of his lips. Pressed close, skin on skin.

Once upon a dream she made love
to her sister’s husband. Once upon
a nightmare her husband kissed her
upon her ******.  In deep sleep she
smells of ashes from Auschwitz, her
mother’s family perished amongst flames.

She rubs her nose in sleeps’ hold,
scratches her head with unpainted
fingernails. Once upon a sleep she
counted aborted babes, the white
vacant coffins. She turns in her sleep,
her body moves in her favourite armchair,
too tired for bed. She has had nailed
her one Picasso print above her head.

Her husband is in Vienna, a ****** on
his arm, another between sheets,
never from love, always the lust.

She will have him back upon his return;
always his pupil, but never to learn.

You walked down Bath Terrace
having been to Jail Park
on the swings
and slide with Janice

and she had her red beret
on the side of her head
like some French girl
I nearly bayoneted

my old man last night
you said
I had my toy rifle
he brought me

with the rubber bayonet
and I was charging out
of the sitting room
into the passage

and caught him
in the guts
as he entered the room
what you doing?

he asked
I was bayoneting Germans I told him
I’m not German he said
I’m your father

and he stormed off
into the sitting room
to his favourite chair
by the fire

and I stood there thinking
it’s only a toy gun
and I was only having fun
Janice looked at you

and said
if I’d done that
to Gran she’d have spanked
my backside

but you wouldn’t
have had a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
you said

girls don’t have rifles
with bayonets
I might have done
she said

ok
you said
you can borrow mine
and see what happens

no thanks
Janice said
I know what would happen
you climbed over

the metal fence
by Banks House
and sat on the concrete remains
of the bomb shelter

looking toward the coalwarf
where coal wagons
were being loaded
with black sacks of coal

and the horses stood there
in front patiently
eating from nosebags
Janice was sitting pretty

in her red beret
her hair tied
in a ponytail
her coat buttoned up

to the neck
talking about her gran
and the pet bird
in the cage

and you listened  
to her taking in
her hands on her knees
her small fingers

not the kind
to hold a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
more the kind

to hold a baby
or rock a cradle
or stroke brow
you wanted to ask her

for a cowgirl’s kiss
but didn’t know how.

The silence of her frightens you. You stare at her laid out body and feel the want to hold her and kiss her but you know she’s dead and that she will feel nothing of your love again or sense your warmth. Drowned. So suddenly, so quickly. There one moment laughing and full of life and then gone. You gaze at her, at her flesh, at her fingernails. She kept herself so clean, so neat and tidy. The fingernails are trimmed exactly, no rough edges, no uneven part, all just so. Perfection. You run a finger along her ribs; sense the bones beneath the skin. So young, so fresh, so new. You lean forward and kiss her brow. Cold and still. The ginger hair with its boyish cut feels soft as if you had just washed and combed it. No, some other did that, combed it so. You stand back and take in each aspect of her. Her head is reclined upon a small pillow so that the head is tilted forward slightly; the eyes are closed as if in sleep, the pale eyelids like small smooth shells. You lean forward slowly and kiss each one. Secretly you hope that she wakes up and opens her eyes, but she doesn’t, she just lies there motionless, lifeless. You gave birth to her, brought her into the world, heard her first cries, saw her first clenched and unclenched fists, the first sign of her lips opening and closing seeking your *******. She seeks them no more. Seeks nothing now; all seeking is at an end. Her thin arms are laid down by her sides, the hands slightly turned outward as if to say, look at me now Mother, see I am perfected. Not yet a woman, but just about to enter that arena, just about to start her menstrual cycle, her first feeling of breast about to begin. All stopped before it could blossom; stilled in the bud. She has your nose, not her father’s. Your lips, not his. Those lips, wanting to kiss and be kissed, wanting once to ****, are still and chilled now. You want to kiss them, want them to open and her words to speak, her tongue to poke out at you as she would often in fun. The lips are sealed. She speaks no more, nor laughs nor cries. You cradled her when she had her first bleed, that frightened her, thought she was about to die. You ought to have warned her, have mentioned the facts of life to her, but you didn’t, you wanted her to remain your little girl, your baby, not become a woman, not grow up and become lost to you. You bite your lips. She is lost to you now. Lying there on that marble slab like so much wasted flesh. You cry. For the first time you begin to let the tears flow, let them just come, no holding them back now, no more pretence, no more trying to be brave, you feel them on your cheeks, the dampness, the eyes watering to such a degree that is becomes a blur. You wipe your eyes with your hand; want to see each aspect of her before they cover her over again with the sheet, before she’s taken from your sight forever. You can hear yourself cry now, the sound is wounding, as if someone tore at your soul. No one comes; they leave you alone, leave you to this last meeting, this final confrontation with your daughter. How still she is. So motionless. How pale, how thin. Why her? Why now? You lean close to her chest, put your ear there in the hope you may hear her heart beat, some small hope that the doctors are wrong, but there is no heartbeat, nothing. She looks at peace, you think. Yes, at peace. As if in sleep. She used to sleep like that when you would enter her room to see if she was all right at night and there she would be sleeping like this. As if nothing could disturb. Nothing to disturb. Nothing. Your tears have fallen on her cheek as if she was crying too. You wipe them gently away with your fingers. You whisper to her. You utter words in her ear. Save a place for me where you are, you say softly, keep a place for me to be with you. You want her to nod her head or open her lips and say, yes, Mother, of course I will. But she doesn’t, she just lies motionless and silent. The silence of her frightens you. You move away as the door opens and the others enter. They gather around dressed in black like you, as silent as she, but alive, thinking, feeling, sensing, unlike her. You wish you could be laying beside her now, side-by-side, close in death as you had been in life, hands touching. They begin to murmur, the others, gently whisper to you, time to go, time to leave her be. But you can’t, the effort of leaving tears at your very being, drags at your soul, pulls you into the darkness. Someone covers her with the white sheet and she is gone and all you see is the outline of perfection dressed in white like some bride only there is no wedding, no bridegroom, only the dark reaper, edging his way closer into the room as you are pulled gently away and out of the small room with the last image of your daughter sealed in your mind.

We walk along the lane
from the church
after the service;
high hedges,
fields beyond,
warm sun,
birds singing.

Can't meet you
this afternoon,
Yehudit says.

Why's that?

She looks at me
with her big eyes.

Mother says
she wants me
to do some chores.

After the chores?

She shrugs
her shoulders.

Don't think
she'll let me out then.

Be a good
for a walk
by our lake
(her name
for the pond).

She looks away.

I study her profile;
drink her in.

I think some one
may have told her
about us
by the lake.

What about us
by the lake?

You know
the other week.

I look back
at her sister
walking behind
with another.  

Who said anything?

I look at her.

Don't know,
she didn't say
she knew
just the way
she looks at me
and how
she's been recently.

So someone
has been spying
on us?

Looks like it,
but I don't
know who.

I like our lake,
like the whole
scenery there,
the birds,
the ducks,
swans.

I know,
she says,
but I can't go,
least not today.

A car passes us,
a ****** goes,
a hand waves.

Maybe we can
make a quick detour
before you go home?

Not with her with us,
she says,
pointing to
her younger sister
behind us.

Will she talk?
I ask.

She always talks.

Let her go in front
of us for a while.

So we hang back
and her sister passes
talking to another.

She's prettier than I am.

You're pretty enough
for me.

I take her hand
and draw her
into a gap
in the hedge
and we kiss.

Lips on lips stuff,
hands caressing
each the other.

Nice body,
lovely lips,
shame about
your mother.

You stopped outside
this shop window
on the New Kent Road
and peered in

there were lots
of merchandise
with labels saying
To Clear on them

and you saw
this stamp album
with a packet
of stamps attached

for 1/6d
so you went in
and asked the old guy
behind the counter

for the stamp album
and stamps
and he reached in
the window

and took it out
and you gave him
the 1/6d
and he handed you

the album
and he said
ain't you the kid
who came in here

last week
and bought
the cap gun and holster?
yes I am

you said
why?
you must have
diverse tastes kid

he said
guess so
you said
and walked out

into the street
where Helen
was waiting for you
what did you buy?

she asked
a stamp album
and stamps
you replied

you showed her
what you'd bought
you don't look like
the kind of kid

who'd buy
a stamp album
or who
collected stamps

she said
what's a kid
who collects stamps
look like?

you asked
she looked at you
her head
slightly

to one side
I don't know
someone with glasses
with black plastered

down hair
with a posh voice
she said
you gazed at her

standing there
in her red
and yellow
flowered dress

and brown hair
in tied bunches
and her thick
lens glasses

you wear glasses
you said
you don't
collect stamps

but I'm not a boy
she said
only boys collect stamps
you shook your head

and smiled
anyway lets go
to my house
and drop theses off

and go to the park
and have fun
you said
ok

she said
and you walked with her
to your home
you with your stamp album

and stamps
and she with her
battered doll Betty
in her right hand

swinging it along
and you humming
some Roy Rogers
cowboy song.

Take me, Miss Pinkie says,
take me. A plump bundle
of pinkness, dyed hair, grey
at the roots, the blue eyes
whiskey soaked, the mouth

open, the naked skin, the full
moon flowing in. All aboard
who are coming aboard, she
says to the room, and he beside
her says, are you sure? now

of all times? yes, she says, lift
the anchor, set sail, take note
of the rough seas, the rise and
fall of the waves, and he looking
back sees moonlight on his naked

****, the sound of Mahler’s 6th
echoing from the other room,
and he sensing the high seas
and moving surf, climbs aboard,
set eyes to the horizon of bed

board and cool blue walls, and
hears the sirens sing, hears the
creak of bed and bones as he and
Miss Pinkie, on the love ship, hold
tight and smile, as it rises and falls.

The show must go on, Frogmore
says, and Lottie sits and has
a quick drag on her cigarette and
sips the foul coffee from the

drinks machine. Legs ache, head
banging, back stiff. She inhales
and thinks of Frankie and his
coming to her place the previous

evening and wanting to stay over
for the night. The cabaret takes it
out of her. The eyes on her, the talk
going on while she and the other

girls do their bit. Frankie such a
sweetheart, such a Mr Softy, curled
up on the sofa, his huge overcoat
as a cover, his head sunk into a

cushion, sleeping. She watches the
smoke rise from the cigarette, she
lifts it and the smoke rises in short
circles, like her father used to do

when she was a kid sitting on his
knee. Watch the smoke Kid, see
how it rises like some kind of message
to the gods. And he laughed about

that back then. She felt safe on his
knee even when he used to let it rise
and fall like some kind of riding  horse.
Now it is just the cabaret and the lonely

nights and Frankie on the sofa because
his old lady threw him out and he won’t
sleep with Lottie because he’s a good
Catholic boy and anyways, he said, it’d

get too confusing and he’d just lay there
on the sofa on those nights and she’d lay
alone wanting company and maybe someone
to hug her real close. Hey, Frogmore says,

you in this next dance or what? What do I
pay you for, huh? Sit about and smoke
yourself to death? You want to die do it
in your own time not mine. She stubs out

the cigarette **** and drains the foul coffee
in one last gulp. The music has started up
their theme bit for her and other girls and
out there in the audience drinking, eating

and talking, maybe Frankie staring or her
father with his latest flame without beauty
or brains or nice figure or remembered name.

You used to cross
Rockingham Street
to the bakers
on the corner

of Meadow Row
and buy 6 crusty rolls
and a white loaf of bread
and carry them back home

to the fifth floor
of the flats
where your mother said
keep the change for going

and you pocketed the change
to save for the 6 shooter gun
you’d seen in the toy shop
along the New Kent Road

and your mother
would butter a roll
and put in a slice of cheese
and you would go sit

in the window
over looking
the railway
shunting yard

and eat
taking in the rail trucks
loaded with coal
being shunted into

the yard and the trucks
unload and the coal
would fall down through
to the coal wharf below

and then you saw
the coal carts loaded
with sacked up coal
and the horses in harness

waiting to go
and you imagined
one of those horses
in saddle and you

taking off across
the Wild West
with your new 6 shooter
in your hand

tracking the bad cowboys
and dropping into
the public house
for a glass of redeye

or lemonade
don’t be too long
your mother said
nearly time for school

and as you ate
the last few crumbs
and sipped
the last drops of milk

from the glass
and wiped your mouth
with the back of your hand
a steam train

crossed the bridge
and you thought
of the bad cowboys
on Bank’s House Ridge.

You walked with Jane
as you passed by
the water tower
she talked

of the various breeds
of cattle
there were some
for meat

others for milk
some for both
she pointed out
some cows

in a field nearby
and told you
their breed
have you ever seen

a calf born?
she said
no
you said

not seen anything
like that
let's go to the farm
I think they have a cow

that is due to drop
she said
so you turned up
the drive

that led to the farm
where you worked
some evenings
after school

or at weekends
she walked and talked
you listened
looking at her

dark hair tied back
with a green ribbon
her dark eyes shone
with sunlight

you looked away
at that moment
watching the farm dog
pass by

with its one good eye
(it had bitten you once
and you were wary of it)
a cowman

was at the side
of a shed
clearing out
has the new calf

been born yet?
she asked
he looked at her
then at you

no not yet
he said
but should be soon
want to watch then?

he said
gazing at you
kind of grinning
yes

Jane said
Benedict here
hasn't seen a birth
oh of course

these Londoners
haven't nought
he said
hang about a moment

and we'll go across
he said
you looked at Jane
she was silent

looking around the farm
have you seen
a calf being born?
you asked

many times
she said
ever since
I could stand

I’ve been near
cattle and sheep
I know most breeds
of both

she added softly
after a few minutes
the cowman walked
you both over to the cowshed

over the yard
and opened up
the half door
there she is

he said
waiting to drop
you and Jane
peered over

the half door
at a cow by the wall
looking at you
disinterestedly

her tail flapping
away flies
shouldn't be long now
the cowman said

never seen
a calf born then?
he said to you
no not yet

you said
don't suppose
you Londoners
see much of cows

he said smiling
no not at all in London
you said
he looked at Jane

then at the cow
which was standing still
making noises
then moving

then standing still again
I was about 5
when my old dad
took me to see

a calf born
the cowman said
all that blood and stuff
near made me

want to puke
first time
you looked at Jane
her hands

on the door top
her eyes focused
on the cow
she had on blue jeans

and boots
and a yellowy top
with small bulges
of *******

there she goes
the cowman said
and you gazed
at the cow

and a head appeared
as if by magic
out of the rear
of the cow

and it hung there
momentarily
then it slid out
and dropped

to the straw filled floor
covered in blood
and stuff
and the cow

licked the calf
and you watched
fascinated
at the new life

laying there
moving
the cow licking
the legs moving

the head turning
that's how it is
the cowman said
easy one that

and you moved closer
to Jane
smelling her scent
her warmth near you

her arm next to yours
what will you call it?
Jane asked
don't know yet

the cowman said
might call it Benedict
if it's a bull calf
and Jane

if it's a heifer
he smiled at you both
and opened up
the lower door

and went in
then closed it up again
there you are
she said

now you've seen
a calf born
you nodded
and you walked back

out of the yard
and up the drive
let's go back to my house
she said

Mum'll give us
tea and cake
and we can tell her
about the calf  

ok
you said
walking beside her
sensing her nearness

her hand close to yours
you wanting to hold it
but not doing so
walking there

beneath the sun's
warmth and glow.

Outside Burgos
in the base camp
after seeing the cathedral
and other sights

and having a beer
and a burger
at the bar
you went to a small disco

and danced a few hours
then went with Mamie
back to the tents
the moon quite bright

like a new coin
on a black cloth
and Mamie said
I can’t remember

where mine is
where what is?
you asked
my tent

my ****** tent
what do you think I meant?
where about were you?
I don’t know

we were only there
half hour or so
she moaned
and it was raining

and I was cold
and the girl
I was sharing with
was one hell of a misery

you could with me
but I’m with that young army guy
she looked at your tent
and said

where is he now?
inside maybe
you said
or out getting plastered

can’t he find
someplace else to sleep?
she said
don’t think he’d do that

some how
you said
well help me find my tent then
she moaned

ok I will
you said
and off you went with her
in the semi dark

walking between tents
trying to discover
her tent
out of so many

wait
she said
after five minutes
I remember we were near

an outhouse
because she moaned
about the smell
of ***** and such

and she pointed to a tent
over the field
near a small outhouse
where people

were coming and going
that’s it
she said
there

and so she ran ahead
to the tent
and unzipped it
yes this is it

she said excitedly
but she’s not here
do you want to come in
for awhile?

you studied her face
and eyes and that
hair of hers
and said

sure why not
maybe she won’t be back
maybe she’ll fine
some other tent to sleep

not her
Mamie said
she’ll be back
the moaning cow

but why she’s out
we can at least
get down to kissing
and things

sure
you said
entering the tent
behind her gazing

at her pink hot pants
whatever fate brings.

Lydia's mother
opened the door
of the flat
after I had knocked

and gave me
a stern stare
is Lydia coming out?
I asked

she looked hard
at me
where?
to the herbalist

get some sarsaparilla
I said
sarsaparilla?
she said

yes it's good for you
they say
makes blood
I said

she looked
at my scuffed shoes
and blue jeans
and the gun and holster

hanging
from the snake head
elastic belt
around my waist

I suppose she can
her mother said
LYDIA
she bellowed

windows rattled
a dog
across the Square
barked

the milkman's horse
lifted its head
from the nosebag
Lydia came to the door

and poked her head
out from under
her mother's arm
Benedict here

wants to take you
to get a sarsaparilla
Lydia looked at you
her eyes narrowing

then widening
ok
she said
can I go?

she asked
course if I say so
as long
as you are wrapped warmer

than you are now
her mother said
Lydia rushed back inside
and her mother

took a long drag
of a cigarette
her yellowing fingers
in a V shape

what's your father
do for a living?
she asked
the smoke carrying

her words to me
he's a metal worker
I said
he makes things

from metal
she stared at me
a few loose hairs
had escaped

the flowery scarf
about her head
I think
he frequents ******

she said
I see
I said
unsure

what she was saying
she inhaled
on the cigarette again
her eyes

gazing beyond me
keep Lydia out
a fair while
she said

pushing out smoke
I want to rest
my eyes a while
ok

I said
she went indoors
and I waited for Lydia
sniffing in the smoke

hanging about
the doorstep
the dog barked again
the horse ate

from the nosebag
the milkman whistled
a few notes
from some tune

I sniffed the smoke again
hoping Lydia
would be out
wrapped warm soon.

Monica watches
as Benedict and Jim
practise judo on the grass
off the path
to the farmhouse.

She cheers Benedict on
standing on the edge
clapping her hands excitedly.

Her other brother Pete
leans against the fence bored,
hands ******
in his jean’s pockets.

How long are you going to be
practising this judo ****?
the film starts
in half an hour,
he says.

Benedict throws Jim
to the floor
in a  quick movement,
Monica raises her hands
to the air.

Knew you could do it,
knew you could,
she says, patting
Benedict on the back
of his jacket.

Jim dusts off
his jeans
with his hands,
looks at Pete,
then at Monica.

Caught me off guard,
he says,
she put me off
with her yelling
and clapping.

Can we go now?
Pete says,
moving off the fence,
now you’ve done
your judo stuff?

Can I come?
Monica asks
looking at Benedict.

No way,
Jim says,
don’t want no girl
dragging us down.

I am not any girl,
I’m your sister,
she says, staring
at Benedict.

He looks at Jim
then at Monica.
I don’t mind if she comes,
he says.

I do,
Pete says.

Monica pouts
and folds her arms
over her small *******.

The farmhouse door opens
and their mother comes out.
I thought you
were going to the cinema?
she says.

We are,
Jim says,
just going.

They won’t take me,
Monica says.

Of course they don’t
want you with them,
her mother says.

Anyway I have some chores
I need help with.

Monica pulls a face
and glares
at her brothers,
but looks at Benedict
pleadingly.

Maybe next time,
he says.

Not with us she don’t,
Pete says.
With me though, maybe,
Benedict says,
giving her a wink.

Come on in Monica,
leave the boys be,
the mother says.

Monica follows her mother
towards the farmhouse,
gesturing her middle digit
at her brothers
while her mother’s back
is turned.

Benedict smiles,
watches as she sways
her small hips,
blows him a kiss
from her open palm.

Jim shakes his head
and follows Pete
to the bikes
by the shed,
while Benedict,
takes a kiss
from his lips
and throws it
at Monica’s
departing back.

Her head turns
and her hands open
to catch the thrown kiss
moving slightly forward
so as not to miss.

Miss G puts on Chopin
the old record player's
seen better days
one can tell

by the stylus
and the way
Miss G's finger
lifts its down

on the record
I sit at the back
of the class
with a kid named Rennie

Yochana 's at the front
with the blonde girl
-Yochana's dark hair
at shoulder length-

her fingers
pretend playing
on the desktop
her slim body

moving side to side
in the open backed chair
old ***-less thinks
she the pianist

Rennie darkly says
I'm already watching
her hands going cross
in front of her

side to side
and her slim body
captured in my inner
eye and out

and secretly
I blow kisses
at her
when no one's about.

Naaman met Amana
as she was on her way
to the shop for her mother.

He was counting out change
in the palm of his hand.

The morning sun
was coming over
the fishmonger shop,
the sky was grey blue.

She spoke
of her parents rowing,
how she never slept
until late,
a series of slaps,
then silence,
she said.

Naaman put the change
in the pocket
of his school trousers;
he saw how tired she looked,
even though her fair hair
was well brushed,
there was a haunted
look about her.

He knew of rows,
slammed doors
at night,
weeping into
the small hours
from his mother’s room.  

Amana showed him
the list of shopping
she had to get.

He showed her his.
Doughnuts are warm
from the shop,
we can share one,
he said.

Won’t your mother mind?
she asked.
You can only eat them
once she’ll say,
Naaman replied.

They walked to the shop
across Rockingham Street
and entered in.

The smell of warm bread
and rolls and coffee
being made.

He stood behind her
as she showed
the woman her list.

Amana had on
her school uniform,
the dress well pressed;
the white socks contrasted
with the well blacked shoes.
Her hands were at her sides.
Thumbs down,
soldier like.

He had held that hand
home from school once,
warm, tingling
with the pulse of her.

That time on the bombsite,
collecting chickweed
for the caged bird
his mother kept,
she had kissed
his cheek.
Never washed for a week
(least not that part).

He could smell
the freshness of soap
about her
as he neared to her.

The woman handed
the shopping over
the counter
and Amana paid in coins
which the woman counted.

Naaman handed
the woman his own list.
Rattled the coins
in his pocket.  

Amana waited;
the bag by her feet.
She spoke
of the Annunciation
being taught at school,
the Visitation of an angel.

All beyond Naaman’s grasp
at that time.
He knew of catapults
and swords ,
of old battles in fields,
and the Wild West
where he rode
his imaginary horse.  

He wanted to kiss
her cheek as she
had kissed his.
Shyness prevented.

She spoke
of the ****** birth
the nun’s spoke of,
the wise men coming
from afar
following a star.

Naaman liked the stars,
the brightness of them,
the faraway wonder
in a dark sky.

After he had received
his shopping and paid
they walked back out
into the street
and crossed to the *****
that led to the Square.

Then beneath
the morning sun,
bag in hand,
she leaned close,
pressed her lips
to his cheek
and kissed him there.

She wore her red beret
at an angle
tilted slightly
her hair flowed

from the back
and sides
she had just ridden
my blue

two wheeled
scooter
then sat beside me
on the grass

the blue scooter
resting against the wall
I wonder if people hid
in the bomb shelters?

she said
if the air-raid sirens
went off they would
have done

I said
looking at the shelters
over the way
bet it was dark

in there and spiders
and such
she said
better than being

blown apart
by a bomb
I said
I gave her

one of my sherbet
flying saucer sweets
she put it
in her mouth

and *******
up her eyes
sour
she said

I smiled
gets you
like that
the first time around

she opened her eyes
guess so
she said
she watched

as I put one
in my mouth
and sensed
the sherbet explode

on the tongue
then chewed
the outer softness
can I have another?

Janice asked
sitting there
head to one side
sure

I said
and offered her
the bag
she put two

of her thin fingers in
and took out
a sweet
I noticed

how blue
her eyes were
like small oceans
each reflecting

the summer sky
she wiped
her fingers
on her orange dress

leaving a white sherbet
damp powdery mess.

Christine sat
on the edge
of her bed

her white
dressing gown
wrapped about her

her hair unbrushed
she swung her legs
back and forth
like a child waiting
to play games

you sat
on the bed opposite
your borrowed
dressing gown
dark blue
you held tight
with your hands

as the nurses
had taken away
your belt and laces
in the locked ward

when I first had ECT
she said
they took me in that room
back there and laid me
on that black couch
and said it won’t hurt
it will help

she looked at you
her eyes focused
making sure
you were listening

she brushed hair
out of her face
it’s like being a ******
before ***
you don’t know
what to expect
she added
her voice quieter

she looked around
at the ward
others were elsewhere
or in their beds
or taking a shower

and that bit
when they put
the electrodes
each side of your head
and put that thing
to bite on

yes
you said
made me feel like
I was in a dentist’s chair
back as a kid
with the smell of gas
only there isn’t gas

no gas
she said interrupting
that’s right
just feels like it  

she took a deep intake
of breath
you watched her
her fingers held
the dressing gown
to her neck
the ring on her finger
she wouldn’t remove
even if the guy
didn’t show
for the wedding
she’d keep the ring
stuck there

like waiting to die
you said
and then they give you
the injection in the hand
a little *****
and the wave of nothingness
sweeps over you
and you blank out
and it’s all dark
and empty

she nodded her head
her eyes still glued
to you
then you wake
with a headache
like a huge hangover
without the *****
she said
looking away from you
her profile adding
to her beauty

and it didn’t work for me
she added
as a nurse went by
carrying blankets

me neither
you said
just the dreaded numbness
and the busted head

she got off the bed
and walked to the window
and you followed
standing beside her
looking out
at the trees
and fields
covered in snow

a tractor across the way
with gulls and rooks
following behind

and she touched
your hand with hers
the blind
leading the blind.

She was a rough dame
Johnny thought
watching her pass by
kind of girl

to take no nonsense
no lip
or give a ear a clip
bust a jaw

and give what for
but there was
an element
of beauty there

the flowing hair
the fine figure
as she walked
the burning eyes

with her backward glance
aff tae Scootlund
she said need
tae gettae wae

nae mair tae say
she said
then was off
with a turn

of her head
and Johnny watched
her go
her firm ***

big *****
***** like
bundled babes
and then out

of sight
like a bold ship
rough riding
in a dark night.

Delia who had bedded her
French nanny at fourteen
and had hot *** with the head

girl at boarding school, now
lies beside the arts tutor named
Ms Shopton in college. She has

explored the woman’s body from
top to toe. Invaded each orifice
and landed her ninety ninth

plus umpteenth kiss. Sunlight
pours through the high window,
the woman’s scent and body

odour invades the bed. She has
kissed most parts that can be kissed,
scanned the woman’s skin, taking

in the freckles, the spots, the mole
inside the left thigh, run her finger
along the spine. She watches the

woman sleep, the mouth slightly ajar,
the perfect teeth, the tongue (who
knows where that has been) touching

the corner of the lips. She may well
get a high A for this piece of art work,
the effort put in, the juices taken out,

the ******* and touching, the final lay.
She breathes in the air, runs her tongue
across her own damp lips. She hears

the college bell, the time to get up, the
breakfast call, the wide awake stare.
The woman beside her sleeps on, lying

worn out, out for the count, lying there.

Sonya
that Parisian street
is still there
no doubt

although whether
that cheap hotel
is still there
is another

question
but we were there
back then
the double

old bed
the bidet
the sink greasy
and the toilet

well less said
the better
but Paris
was good

and we walked
its streets
and ate and drank
in its restaurants

and cafés
and saw
the art galleries
and rode the metro

sometimes for free
avoiding
the ticket collector
and the room

and that bed
and us lying there
the window open
the street sounds

and the smell
of the City
and I
with my Dostoevsky book

and you saying
can't you read
something
more cheerful?

and you lying there
with your blonde hair
spread on the pillow
on the bed

and you talking
of Kierkegaard
and Either Or
or something

about a leap
of faith
and you puking
into the bidet

after the cheap wine
and I reading
and saying
serves you right

but sorted you
later that night
and how we love
the early morning

feel of Paris
the opening
of the window
and wow

there we were
in the city
where Hemingway stayed
and Ezra Pound

and Henry Miller
and others
worth their salt
and we kissing

and embracing
and making
the long love
with moon and stars

and the night sky
up above.

It was Friday evening
the time for being weighed
before bath in the nursing home
and Anne was standing

behind you in the queue of kids
leaning on her crutch
the stump of her leg
just visible beneath

her short red skirt
and she whispered to you
how much do you weigh Skinny Kid?
I don’t know

you replied
maybe 84lbs
she snorted 84lbs?
my ***** weighs more than that

she whispered
her warm breath
on your ear
the kids in front of you

moved up and Monica
the girl with burn scars
climbed off
the weighing scales

what do you weigh Scarface?
Anne called out
don’t be cruel Anne
the nurse near the scales said

oops sorry nurse
it just slipped out
Anne said
(so the bishop said

to the actress
Anne whispered
in your ear)
after a few more kids

got on and off
the scales after
being weighed
it was your turn

and you climbed on the scales
and the red line
showed 77lbs
and the nurse said

what it showed
and you got off
and Anne crutched herself
onto the scales

and you stood
and watched
as the red line showed 112lbs
now that

said Anne looking at you
is real poundage
and as she got off the scales
she ushered you outside

into the passageway
and said
here feel my thigh
go on

have a feel
and she grabbed
your hand
and made you

touch her thigh
it was smooth
and warm
you’re such a thin *******

Skinny Kid
you need to fatten yourself up
she released your hand
and you followed her

along to the lounge
where others waited
for bath time
she nibbled

your earlobe affectionately
and crutched herself
over to the armchair
in the corner

and pinched Monica
on her way
giving out
a snort of laughter

as Monica uttered
loud moans
and you sensed
the dampness

on your earlobe
like a loving memento
which you hoped
would last

but knew
it would
like passing time
soon go.

You and your sister
found a pigeon
on the grass
outside Banks House

which couldn’t fly
and so you took it up
the concrete stairs
to your mother

and your sister said
it can’t fly
what shall we do?
it can stay the night

your mother said
but in the morning
you must take it
to the police station

and leave it with them
and so you found
a cardboard box
and placed the bird in

with a small bowl of water
and some broken up bread
and left it
in the lounge

over night
and you could hear its sound
and movement
as it walked around

the box
and in the morning
it was still alive
and looked at you both dully

and so after breakfast
you took the bird
to the police station
and the police officer said

what have we here then?
a pigeon
your sister said
it can’t fly

oh I see
the police officer said
in mock surprise
can’t fly ok

leave it with me
and we will contact
the appropriate people
to deal with the issue

and so you did
and on the way home
your sister said
I hope it will be all right

and have a new home
and you said
yes I’m sure it will
but with a mischievous look

in your eye
thinking
but not saying
in somebody’s pie.

Benedict sat in a pew
of the old church
while Jane arranged flowers
up at the altar end
with an older woman.

The church smelt of flowers
and damp and age.
Sunlight poured through
the coloured glass windows.

He sat and watched Jane
sort the vase, her fingers nimble,
her body slim, reaching up
to the take down vases,
the sunlight catching
her movements.

Jane’s mother had told him
she was in the church
when he called
at the vicarage.
She won’t be long,
her mother had said.

He sniffed the air.
It had a churchy smell.
She arranged flowers with care,
her fingers patting into place,
her arms in constant motion.

The other woman
having completed her tasks
left the church.
Jane came and sat beside him.
Looks good doesn’t it, she said.
Yes it does, he said.

She smelt of fresh apples,
he thought of orchards,
sunlight, warm days.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek,
her lips moist, warm.
He put his hand on her thigh,
sensed the pulse of her.

Let’s go out in the daylight, she said.
They walked out of the church
and along the path to the lane
hand in hand.
I’ve just go to go home
for a minute for something,
she said and he followed her
to the vicarage
and waited outside.

After a few minutes she was out
and they walked along the lane.
The hedgerows were brimming with birds,
their songs and chatter filled the air.

It was never like this in London,
he said. Never this freshness,
never nature so near and alive.
I’ve only known this, she said,
this countryside, the small local town,
the cows and fields, the open sky.

Must seem odd to you the contrast.
He looked at her; her hair dark
and free from constraints,
her eyes dark, catching sunlight.

Yes, it is, he said, like escaping Hell
and finding paradise. She smiled.
With or without me? she said.
You’re the icing on the cake,
the angel that makes
it all seem worthwhile. She laughed.
You have such a way with words.

They passed the water tower;
cows mooed in a nearby field.
She put her arm around his waist
and kissed his neck. They stopped
in the lane. Momentarily it seemed
as if the birds had ceased to sing
or chatter; as if the sky had exploded
with colour. He kissed her and held her.

Their 13 year old lips met.
This was paradise, he thought,
nothing else could matter.

You saw Judy on the south wing
of the old folks nursing home
near to Mr Atkinson’s room
carrying towels in her arms

I need to speak to you
you said
what about?
she asked

you playfully bundled her
into Bob Atkinson’s room
(he was either
in the lounge

or out down town
hobbling along
for small items of shopping
or at the second-hand

book shop looking
for boy’s annuals
of yesteryear
which he read

from cover to cover
before cutting out
the pictures
and sticking them

in albums)
what are you doing?
she said
what if Bob comes in?

he won’t
he’s out
you said
but what if he does?

she whispered
well unless I was rogering you
to kingdom come
I don’t think he’d mind

you said
pressing her 5’5’’ body
against the door
and looking into her

grey blue eyes
she gazed
into your eyes
and said

what do you need
to talk to me about?
I think I’m in love with you
you said

she sighed
that’s the umpteen time
you’ve told me that
she said  

she dropped the towels
on Bob’s bed
and put her arms
around your waist

and drew you closer
you moved your left hand
around her back
and your right hand

on her buttocks
and said
that’s because it’s
umpteen times worse

or better depending
how you look at it
she kissed you on the lips
and you sensed

her tongue touch yours
her eyes closed
and you closed yours
the room becoming

a far away place
her perfume blending
into the air about you
the ticktock of Bob’s

old clock on the bedside table
like some metronome
setting the pace
as if it was all part

of some song or some
deep aspect
of a Bruckner symphony
she pushed you away

and said
it’s nearly break time
and people will wonder
why we’re not there

and put one
and one together
ok
you said

removing your hand
from her ****
the warmth still there
her eyes still captured

in your inner self
thank you
for the Chagall postcard
I’ve put it on

my bedside table
along with that photo
you gave me of you
got to go

she said
and opened the door
and walked off
down the passage

you looked around
Bob’s room
at the ticking clock
and the blue

candlewick cover
and the picture
of some boy
cut out of some

old annual
chasing a dog
over a field
and Judy’s lips

and tongue
seemed still
to be there
in your mouth

and her hand enfolding
your waist and back
and Peter in the pants
going all slack.

Martha was shown
into a parlour
inside the front door
of the mother house

by a plump nun
in black and white
who looked like a penguin
out for a stroll

wait in there
she said
someone
will fetch you

in time
so Martha looked around
the room at the plain
white walls

the heavy curtains
at the windows
the huge crucifix
on the wall opposite

whose plaster Christ
seemed battered
an aged
the plaster had lines

and cracks
on the legs
and arms
and the hands

were contorted
like a crab
on its back
with rusty nails

holding them in place
she moved nearer
and reached up a hand
so that her fingers

could touch the feet
of Christ and run
them over the toes
and feel the nail

going through the feet
she rubbed her fingers there
she used to rub the crucifix
in her grandmother's house

the big one over
the double bed
and if she stood
on the bed

she could reach right up
to touch the face
and beard
and see if she could

hear Him breathe
or if she reached
really high
she could feel His nose

which on her grandmother's
Christ the nose seemed broken
and her grandmother said
that was where

her grandfather
had thrown a shoe in temper
and crack the plaster nose
will he go to Hell?

she recalled asking
her grandmother
O no
her grandmother said

not just for that
and she was pleased
because she liked her grandfather
and his simple ways

and hard toffees
she felt each toe in turn
moving a finger
over the plaster

and remembered
her school friend Mary
who had pressed
chewing gum

into the bellybutton
of the plaster Christ
in the cloister
of the convent school

back in the 1960s
and when Sister Bede
saw it she had to gently
chiselled it out

with a screwdriver
threatening severe punishment
to the girl responsible
but no one told

and even when she left years
after the bellybutton
of the Christ still had
the scar where Sister Bede

had chiselled too hard
there was a cough behind her
and Martha turned
and there was a nun

standing by the door
her eyes dark like berries
and her thin mouth
slowly opened

and she said
are you the girl
who wants to be a nun?
Martha nodded her head

and the nun told her
to follow her and she
went down a dim lit
passageway

the nun in front
pacing slow
each footstep measured
her hands tucked

out of sight
with only the sound
of her heels going
clip clop clip clop

on the flagstones
and the black habit
swaying very gracefully
as she walked

no more words
no questions
no answers
because no one talked.

“They have locked the ward,” said Tristana, “I am prisoner to the nurse’s whim. I see the large key hanging from her belt, it rattles against the other keys as she walks. I feel ghosts touch my arm as I pass; their voices echo in my ears, their fingers feel my flesh. The nurse called Bryony bellows at us all; her voice hammers in our ears. The windows show the fields beyond, the trees wave in the wind, the birds fly so high. Isolde holds my hand, she follows me wherever I go; her eyes are alight with her father’s ghost; his spanking hand raised in her memory’s eye. I let her come to my bed at night, let her cuddle close when the lights are out, let her kiss when the others sleep. The mad here are ****** by their minds; the sunlight makes them ***** up their eyes; their voices are pitched to the highest degree. The nurses come with their strutting pace; their hands haul us to our place in the dining hall; the food rammed down throats like pigs at troughs; the sounds of the mad echo the walls. Isolde and I walk in the grounds; the elm grove our daily trot; the birds our only companions. She speaks of her father’s hitting hand and his ******* times with her flesh at nights; she stares at the sky like a lost sheep. We embrace beyond the window’s sight; we kiss where none can see; the sunlight blesses us, the wind holds us with kind parent’s touch; we whisper words to the passing birds. The high walls surround us; the far off bell reminds us of home; the sound of keys locking reminds us of Hell. The nurses come for the baths are ready; the patients scream for the water’s hot, the flesh turns red at the water’s touch. The nurse called Bridget takes my hand, she leads me to the washing room, her hands rub me clean as my mother’s did; her eyes are blue as the distant sky; her voice melodic as a bird in spring. The chaplain comes with his bible and prayer; his eyes are black as the doomed and the ******; his voice bellows like the thunder of storms. He leads us in prayer like the blind leading blind; the Bible is read but the message is lost; the patients hum like the soon to be dead. I want my mother’s hold, my sister’s kiss; I want to hear the laughter of my father’s voice, his embrace against the storms that shake my mind.  Isolde comes; her hand in mine holds me fast; her lips are ever on my cheek, kissing me in her daily love, her voice tripping over words like a lame child’s run. We sit and watch the clouds pass by; we name each one with our special names, we see shapes in the formation as they pass. She cries in her sleep if her father comes, his ghostly shape and his spanking hand, her flesh shakes as he passes by. The doors of the ward are locked; the asylum holds us in a strong man’s grip; the nights go out as we twist and turn; Isolde creeps to my bed like a frighten child; we embrace in the darkness against the cold and ghosts; the keys rattle in our sleep; Isolde’s lips are pressed to my breast; the angels may come one night and grant us rest.”

There was something
about the peasant in her
as she lay there
in the tall grass
the sun shining on her
the white clouds overhead

birds in flight
there was that aspect
of the peasant
in the simplicity

of her manner
the gesture of hands
the look
of the big blue eyes

and the skirt pulled up
nakedness revealed
and he
lying beside her

taking in
her whole aspect
the summery smell
the heat

the almost airlessness
about them
distant train
steam sounds

and she said
you're to tell
no one of this
( she had said that

about the first kiss)
and he said
of course not
whom would I tell?

he lay his head
on her soft *******
cushion like
as if afloat

she murmuring
more words
he lost
in the softness

of her
the scent
of her mother
(borrowed lavender scent

from the dressing table)
if my mother ever heard
she said
there'd be hell to pay

so say nothing
my lips are sealed
he said
nosing between her *******

muffled words
a rush of birds overhead
her hands on him
resting on his back

he tongued her
breathing her in
you're my first
she said

at doing this
say nothing lad
his inner voice
suggested

words wound
say nowt
he felt her hips
fingers running over

finger tips sensing
smoothness
moving lower
sensed thighs

she breathed harder
words gone
utterings wordless
she spread herself

like a butterfly in flight
he pinned her there
in the tall grass
as he'd seen

butterflies pinned
to a board
in the glass box
at school

he breathed in
she breathed out
he smelt apples of her
mixture of lavender

and apples
and that earthly scent
of bodies in motion
the tall grass

became an ocean
waves moved and sank
she sighed
he uttered wordless sounds

she kissed his shoulder
bit flesh
he kissed her neck
lip bit

****** skin
the summery sky
the birds silent
clouds drifted

she saw them
white over blue
over white
her palms on him

pressing
caressing
he journeying
to a heaven

birds gone
sky above him
unseen
just the ocean moving

a huge expanse
of green.

One leg Anne
crutched herself
to the window

and stared out at the rain
Look at the ******* weather
she said

she let go
of the handle
of one crutch

and scratched her thigh
you stood just behind her
watching her standing there

like a dejected Napoleon
What do you think
they’d say if I got you

to push me out
in the wheelchair
in this Skinny Boy?

she said
looking at you
over her shoulder

They wouldn’t allow it
you replied moving up
beside her

and peering out
at the rain
on the lawn and trees

I don’t give a donkey’s tail
what they’d allow
she said

being politer
than she usually was
Why do you want

to go out in the rain?
you asked
Because I hate

being shut up
in my room
or being pushed

around the corridors
like fecking Guy Fawkes
she crutched herself

away from the window
Come on Skinny Boy
let’s venture out

But we’ll get wet
you said following her
out of the room

Hush do you want
the grown ups
to know our plans of escape?

you stood beside her
by the backdoor
your eyes watched

the rain falling on
the path outside
Bring me a wheelchair

Skiing Boy
we’re going to explore
you went to the store room

and pushed a wheelchair
to where she stood
and she sat down

and gave you
the crutches
Right off we go

she said
and you opened
the door

and wheeled her out
the raindrops
pattering on

and around you both
and she bellowed
Go go

on on
and so you pushed
and the rain fell

and she laughed
and opened her arms
and her hands

and said
This is living Boy
better to live

and be wet
than dry indoors
and dead.

Ingrid finds the crowds of people overwhelming the West End of London is busier than she thought it would be theyve just got off the bus at Trafalgar Square quite near from here the National Portrait Gallery he says as they walks through Trafalgar Square past by Nelsons Column its a 170 feet high he says looking up Ingrid looks up too I bet he can see for miles up there she says its been there since 1843 he says walking on howd you know? she asks Mr Finn told us in history the other month Benny says I never heard him say that Ingrid says following behind Benny you were probably asleep Benny says smiling no I wasnt she replies just dont like history I find it bores me they climb the steps into the National Portrait Gallery and spend an hour or so looking around at the various portraits afterwards they come out and Benny says what about a glass of milk and cake in Leicester Square? is it far? she asks no just around the corner he says so they walk around and into Leicester Square my old man brings me here sometimes Benny says usually Sundays and we have a look around then we have a drink some place and have a go on the machines in the pinball alleys  my dad doesnt take me anywhere Ingrid says taking in the bright neon lights and the crowds of people passing them by I came with Mum once when she did evening cleaning at one of the offices up here Ingrid says remembering my mum works up here too cleaning some evenings Benny says they go into a milk bar and sit down at a table a waitress comes over to them and asks them what they wanted to drink or eat Benny tells her and she walks away he looks at Ingrid sitting in the chair he noticed she winced when she sat down whats up? your old man been hitting you again? he asks her why how did you know? she says looking at him blushing slightly saw how you sat and winced he replies he was in a bad mood and said I was too noisy and now that my brother and sister have left home he finds it easier to pick on me and Mum too Ingrid says you should tell someone Benny says Ingrid shakes her head Mum says Ill be taken away and wont see her anymore and I dont want to go in a home away from her so I say nothing and you mustnt either she  says eyeing Benny anxiously whod believe me he says looking at her wishing he could save her from the beatings she gets but he knows no one would believe him the waitress beings their milks and two biscuits and goes off after putting them on the table I saw your mum had a back eye the other week and my mum said she told her she walked into a door some ****** door that must be Benny says she must walk into that door on a regular basis Ingrid begins to sip the milk through a straw the waitress had provided she says nothing but looks at the glass and the sound of other people talking and laughing Benny sips his milk also thinking of the last time hed seen Ingrids old man passed him on the stairs and her old man eyed him coldly but said nothing after he had gone downstairs Benny gave him the ******* gesture Ingrid is glad to be out of the flat and the Square but shes anxious about his return that night after work and what he will ask her and she finds it hard to lie to him and if she says shes been to art gallery and the West End hell whack her for going and for going with Benny and Mumll say nothing then hell thump her for letting me go off and Ill feel guilty for getting Mum into trouble you let a nine year old girl out into the West End with that Benny kid? thump thump Ingrid can see it all now as she sips her milk Benny sips his milk eyeing Ingrid opposite looking anxious her mind on something else her eyes through her glasses enlarged what are you thinking about? he asks she looks at him nothing she replies its impossible for the human brain not to  think about something unless its died of course and I assume your brain hasnt died he says smiling Daddy says Im brain-dead sometimes she says but I wasnt thinking of anything in particular she lies looking at Bennys hair and the quiff and his hazel eyes and that way he has of studying her you dont lie too good he says lying about what? she says trying not to look too guilty Im not lying what were you really thinking about then? he asks she looks away from him and sips more of the milk I bet youre worrying about your old man finding out about us going up West and you know you cant lie to save your life Benny says I wish I could lie but I just blush or my eyes give me away Daddy always looks at my eyes he says they give me away before my mouth does then Im for it and he knows it and Mum gets it also then whether she knows about me or not its a matter of creative truth telling Benny says she looks at him and she frowns whats that? she says well keep in mind something who have said or done and put it in place of something you have done or said which you know you shouldnt have done he says but we have been here she says how can I put anything in its place? we will Benny says where? she asks well go to the church on the way home and you can go in there on your own and pray or something look at the coloured glass windows and flowers and then tell your old man that if he asks where youve been and done they finish their drinks and biscuits and go back to Trafalgar Square and get a bus back to the Elephant and Castle and Benny and Ingrid go to the church at the top of Meadow Row right now you go in on your own and sit and pray and have good look at the things inside like the coloured glass windows and the altar and then if your old man asks you can tell him the truth Benny says Ingrid goes in the church and Benny waits outside and as he does so he spots Ingrids old man go by on the other side of Meadow Row but he doesnt see Benny he just walks down the Row his features grim and Benny thinks of tiny demons following him.

The day after
Janice’s gran
had taken you
to see the film

The Ten Commandments
you had gone with Janice
to Jail Park
to ride the swings

and she talked of the film
and the parting
of the Red Sea
and the drowning

of the Pharaoh’s men
and the horses
and the writing
on the two tablets

of stone
shame the horses
had to drown too
she said

they hadn’t done
anything wrong
it’s a matter of being
in the wrong place

at the wrong time
you said
but those poor horses
they didn’t ask

to be the Pharaoh’s horses
you swung high
on the swing
your feet reaching up

towards the sky
Janice was beside you
she wasn’t swinging so high
and those poor slaves

she added pushing
her swing higher
by moving her legs
and arms

why were there slaves?
why can’t people
be nice to each other?
I can imagine Cogan

in my class
being a bit of a pharaoh
given the chance
the fat ***

you said
maybe he’s not
treated right at home
she said

maybe that’s why
he’s like that
no he’s just a prat
you said

who likes to bully
other kids
does he bully you?
she asked

he promises
to smash my face in
but when I waited
for him the other day

after school
he didn’t show
you said
my gran said

to be kind to people
and try to see
their better side
Janice said

I do try
you said
but his ugly dial
gets in the way

and she laughed
and said
we mustn’t laugh
it’s a shame when people

have to bully others
I’m sure he’s got
a good side
your feet were now

almost touching
the sky’s rim
well if he has
he must keep it

in his pants
you said
she smiled
and shook her head

her brown sandals
and white socks
seemed to scrape
the sky’s skin

but gran said
Janice almost sang
that none of us
is free of sin

and her voice drifted off
into the blue
just the two swings
on that Monday morning

and Janice
and you.

After school
Helen’s mother took you home to tea
and she was wheeling

the big pram along the pavement
with you on one side
and Helen on the other

and she said
hold onto the pram
while we cross the roads

I don’t want anything
to happen to you
and as you crossed

the busy roads
you kept glancing over
at Helen with her plaited hair

parted in the middle
and her thin wired glasses
and her raincoat

buttoned tight
against the wind
and her small hand

clutching the pram handle tightly
and beside you
Helen’s mother

short and stocky
pushing and puffing
and her eyes dark as night

and kind at the same time
and when you reached their home
and went inside

and she took off your coat
you went with Helen
into the sitting room

with a coal fire blazing
and the smell
of drying clothes

and past dinners
and Helen said
do you want to see my dolls

and the doll’s house
my daddy made
out of boxwood

with lights you can turn off and on?
sure ok
you said

and you followed her
into her bedroom
where her toys and dolls

were laid up along the wall
next to her bed
and she took up a doll

and held her out to you
and said
this is my favourite

this is Jenny
and you said
hi Jenny how you doing?

and Helen smiled
her slightly goofy smile
and you liked that

her smile
and her eyes large as duck eggs
behind the thick lens

and she handed the doll
to you to hold
and you held the doll

and kissed the head
and hugged it close
thinking glad the other boys

can’t see me now
here with this girl
and kissing and holding

the **** doll
out of some small boy love
and shyness

and you know
they’d laugh out loud
and point their tough boy fingers

and you’re glad
they aren’t there
just Helen

and her little girl love and kindness
against their rough ways
and small boy toughness.

Sitting on a field gate
looking toward the Downs
Jane talked
of butterflies

and birds
and formation
of clouds
trying to educate you

on the country ways
you sat in blue jeans
and white shirt
unbuttoned at the neck

and she wore
the simple grey dress
white socks
and brown shoes

muddied
from recent ventures
into muddy fields
London's is a doss house

compared to this
you said
although I miss
the cinema

and locality of shops
but then there's you
with your down
to earth beauty

and straight forward
country wisdom
I'm not beautiful
in any sense

she said
the only real beauty
Father says
is the sky above us

and all that lies beyond
you gazed
at her profile
the dark hair

the pale skin
the finely drawn lips
the way she tossed
her head

to remove hair
from her eyes
she jumped down
from the field gate

on to the grass
and walked on
and you followed
she looked back

and smiled
why did you look at me
in that way?
what way?

I don't know
that studying me
kind of way
as if you'd only just

seen me
for the first time
maybe I have
you said

maybe I've seen you
for the first time
in a different way
she looked away

her eyes scanning
the Downs
my mother trusts you
I am glad she does

you said
she trusts you
because you're not like
most boys around here

whom she doesn't trust
she picked cowslips
from the field
and sniffed them

and held them out
to you to sniff
beautiful aren't they?
simple yet beautiful

you sniffed them
and gave them
back to her
yes they smell good

you said
she put out a hand
and touched yours
her hand was warm

you rubbed your thumb
over the back
of her hand a
s you walked on

she holding the cowslips
in the other hand
sniffing them
now and then

what is it
you like about me?
she asked
moving off the field

onto the tree lined drive
up to the Downs
you're pretty
and quiet

and thoughtful
and I feel relaxed
with you
anything else?

I like your eyes
and your hair
and the way you smile
she laughed

and looked away
blushing
after a few minutes
she walked you into

a large hollowed out tree
and sat down inside
as if it were a large
inner room

do you love me?
she asked softly
you looked at her mouth
the way her lips

had moved so simply
yes I guess I do
you said
she leaned toward you

and kissed you
the meeting of lips
she put down the cowslips  
and embraced you

with both arms
you held her close
smelling the freshness
of new apples

and country air
then she sat back
and pushed the hair
from her face

and said
I trust you too
and then she was up
and out of the hollow tree

with her cowslips
and walked on to
the drive again
and called out

come on we've away
to walk to the top
and you came out
of the tree

and followed her
noticing how slow
she swayed as she walked
the cowslips rising

and falling in her hand
her voice calling you
to follow her
and you did

near to her side
sensing her nearness
her beauty
the way she walked

and talked
and off to one side
a woodpecker
tapped tapped

on a tree
and you'd wanted
to be no where else
neither distant climes

or lands afar
but close to her
and following her
like some

tall ship
at sea
follows
a bright star.

Martha had this thing
about the Crucified.
The image, the cross,
the stretched out arms.

The one in the convent
school along by the chapel
always caught her eye.
Stood there staring.

Get a move on Martha,
the nun said. Don’t gape so.
Or the image in the dining
room stuck up on the wall

above the abbess’s table.
Painted on she thought.
Not the same. Her mother
had the one her mother

gave her on her deathbed.
Old wood and plaster.
The plaster peeling from
the hands of the Crucified.

Martha gaped at Him,
at His wounds, at the wound
in His side where the spear
went in. Forgive them for

they know not. They did so,
the *******, she muttered,
putting her fingers on the wound
in the side. She had an ebony

rosary in her skirt pocket. Black
Christ on the small ebony cross.
She fingered in her pocket, said
the prayers, felt the stiff body

on the cross. Sometimes she
took it out and kissed it; the ebony
body, the head, the arms. Once
she had a cross around her neck,

silver, small, given by some old
codger. She felt it warm between
her small *******. Lost it when she
took it off to wash and it slipped

down the plughole in the convent bog.
She knew her mother had this wooden
crucifix on her chest of drawers.
A dark wood, a fleshy plastered Christ,

nails through and hands and feet.
She kissed the hands when her mother
was out, her lips touching the smooth
plaster, the eyes closed, the feel of

smoothness on flesh. Not the real
Christ of course. Least not yet.
She’d wait her turn. The real thing.
See what death and Heaven bring.

Sonya in the moments free
of serving the customers
leaning on the serving bench
dark brown eyes

on you
her dark hair
pinned back
said she liked

Mahler’s 4th best
O so exciting
so full of the life
you preferred

the 5th or 2nd
but she said
no no too deep
too long

life is for living
not dozing
to long symphonies
she preferred Kierkegaard

to your Nietzsche
liked his leap of faith
his books on God
and such

you liked her mouth
small
like rose petals
stuck together

her ears visible
and so lickable
(if ever permitted
to do so)

that Nietzsche
she said
went mad
think it

was the pox
stuck his *****
in some *****'s hole
she stopped to serve

a customer
all smiles
and politeness
that butter

wouldn't melt
in her mouth
kind of thing
you carried paint

up from the basement
and shelved it
in colour order
thinking of her

laying in some bed
Mahler's 4th
blaring out
she putting chocolates

one by one
into her small mouth
and licking
her fingers

afterwards
so sexily
one leg
slightly lifted

the other flat
and you imagined her
yakking off
about the Kiergegaard guy

her other hand
not stuffing chocolates
in her mouth
resting over

her ***** hairs
you read Dante?
she asked
having served

the customer
with a smile
and politeness
yes the Purgatory

you said
that is where men belong
she said
unless they take

the leap of faith
she leaned
on the serving bench
eyeing you deeply

what you thinking about?
she asked  
how well you serve
the customers

you lied
thinking of her lips
pressing against yours
her tongue meeting yours

in her mouth
of her body
her hair
her eyes

that is why
I am here
to serve
she said

but she was serving you
differently
inside
your young man's head.

Milka liked it
when Baruch
took her hand
and they walked

to bridge over the river
and talked
or went to see
the peacocks along

the other lane
with the tall trees.
Her  brothers knew now,
but said nothing,

being Baruch's friend's,
they took it
he'd lost hold
of his senses.

She smiled
when one said this.
She didn't say
about the kiss.

Just the one,
that one time,
last time,
unexpectedly.

She liked
that her mother
didn't object
when Baruch came

to pick her up;
her look said it:
no hanky-panky,
you're still 14

even if he's 16,
her gaze said all that,
she assumed
as Baruch nodded his head

when he came
and her mother smiled.
Milka liked it
when her hand

felt his, his soft flesh
on hers, his thumb rubbing
the back of her hand
in slow movement.

He talked
of the latest Elvis film
or LP he'd bought
(promised to take her

to the cinema to see
or his home to hear
the new LP
(she'd have to see).

She talked
of her brothers' teasing
or the girls at school
who suggested she did

such and such
(even though she knew
she'd never) trying to be
with it or clever.

She liked watching
the river flow
beneath the bridge
as they stood and talked,

their hands holding,
their bodies near,
the summer sun above.
Was this for real?

Was this love?
She liked it
when they watched
the peacocks strutting,

their calls, their tails
and feathers,
and Baruch near,
his closeness warming,

his hand keeping her close,
hip to hip, her body alive
to every touch.
But no hanky-panky,

at least not so far,
not beyond
the limits set,
least not, not yet.

Sonya liked the Eiffel Tower,
the art galleries,
the Arc de Triomphe.

We met in a café
in a back street of Paris,
coffee, small cream cakes,
she smoking
her French cigarettes.

You have regrets?
She asked.

Most of us do,
I said.

When my father died
I regret things
I didn't say to him,
she said,
always the regrets,
and when Mother go
and leave,
I thought it was
because of me,
I regret not trying
to find her
when I was older,
she added.

I sipped the coffee,
taking in her blonde
pulled-back-in-a-tight-pony-tail hair,
her red lips,
opening and closing with words.

Regrets are useless things,
I said,
you can do nothing with them,
they change nothing,
don't make one
feel better, only worse.

She looked at me,
her steely blue eyes
sharp as blades.

One cannot choose
to regret or not,
it is there, like scar,
one cannot push out,
she said.

I regret having regrets,
I said,
if I counted up all my regrets
and could turn them
into coins I’d be a rich guy.

She inhaled on her cigarette;
her fingers were browning
where she held
the cigarette so often.

I regret my first boyfriend,
she said,
he wanted *** all the time,
like animal, always
the wanting *** *** ***.

I looked at the waitress
passing by the table,
tight black dress,
white apron
tight about her waist,
nice legs.

Yes, that can be a problem
I guess,
I said,
awkward on dates;
when or do you
get down to ***
on the second date
or third or not at all?

She sipped her coffee,
looked at me,
blue eyes to sink in.

Not have ***,
she said,
until both are ready,
until both agree
time is right.

I noted the waitress
pass by again.

Nice behind,
I thought.

Regrets,
Sonya said,
always there,
like sin,
once it bite into soul
hard to get out.

Yes, I guess so,
I said,
I've been in
the confessional more times
than a *****
drops her draws.

She flushed, looked away.
I put a hand
to my lips;
the things(regretted),
I thought,
I say.

Suddenly it is
Like the conversion
Of St Paul: the rain
Has stopped falling and

You feel that moment
Of dryness, that sweet
Second when the rain
Ceases hitting your

Face, when the wetness
On your brow (despite
The umbrella) stops
Running down your nose.

You stand still; take in
The sharp sight, the feel.
People still walking,
Carrying on, still

Going about their
Lives, stepping around
Or over not through
Puddles, thinking their

Thoughts, unaware the
Rainfall has come to
An end. You breathe in
The air, that after

Rain smell that stink of
Wet cloth, that sudden
Realization
You want to ***. You

Hold the umbrella
Over your dry head
Uncertain if the
Rainfall will come once

More and catch you out.
Father would allow
You to stomp through small
Puddles as a child,

But Mother would not,
She’d steer you around
Them with the calm
Carefulness of a

Saint, gripping your arm
As if you were in
Danger and about
To drown. Dead now, both

In their separate
Graves, separate as
They were in life, he
Just her husband, she

Just his woeful wife.
The rainfall is now
Returning, just a
Short reprieve, like a

Life between two deaths,
And the need to ***
Just as powerful,
The realization

Of being, the wet
And the clinging damp
Clothes, the sneaky wind,
The people passing,

And you still standing
There, breathing in the
After rain smell and
Raining again air.

The school bus stops
and kids get off
and Sheila waits anxiously
by the fence

watching the kids go by
looking at the windows
looking for John
one or two girls

she knows say hello
then move on
then John descends
the steps

and she says
can I hang
around with you?
he stops by the bus

o yes it's you
sorry can't remember
your name
he says

looking at her
Sheila
she says
he walks on

and she walks
beside him
what did you mean
hang around?

he asks
just be with you
when we can
you know

lunch times if we're
on the playing field
or maybe after school
do you live far away?

she asks  
they pass by the fence
and entrance
to the girls' playground

he pauses
sure if you you like
I get a school bus
to West Village

where do you live?
he asks
taking in aspects
of the girl

I live in this town
but I can get a bus
to West most days
I think

she says
hoping she can
not sure
he takes in

her dark hair
her glasses
her school tie
untidy

look I'll see you around
at lunch recess
if we're on
the field ok?

she  nods
unsure what else
to say
but then says

yes look forward to it
and hopes he is too
but he walks on
and away

and doesn't look back
and she goes
in the girls' playground
on edge

unsettled
watching him
disappear from view
undecided what else
to say or do.

On the way
with your father

to the building site
to put in

new windows
to new buildings

you saw this girl
on the platform

of the railway station
standing there

blonde hair  
red mini skirt

white top
small handbag

on her shoulder
nice legs

you thought
right up

to her ***
(as the guys

would say)
taking a quick glance

before the train came
and took her

from your sight forever
and a day

she turned
and gazed up

the platform
to look for the train

you couldn’t see
the colour of eyes

too far to view
but her *******

seemed small
but compact

her hands folded
in front

unringed fingers
(in with a chance

you mused)
but you guessed

she was out
of your league

she’d not give you
a second gaze

not speak
to the likes of you

in your jeans
and work jacket

and well cropped hair
standing there

giving her
the ****** stare.

In Malaga
at the base camp
you danced at some disco
and drank Bacardi

and coke and it was
well into the early hours
of the morning
when you left

with Mamie
tiptoeing between
tent ropes and the unlit
areas between

and she said
I can’t find
where my tent is
and you said

I’d let you share mine
but that young army guy
is in mine
and three in a bed

is a bit cramped
but where is mine?
she said
searching around

touching tent ropes
as she went by
you stood watching
trying to decide

where your tent was
what are we to do?
she asked
let’s go back

to the club
until it gets lighter
or we remember
where our tents are

you said
but I’m tired
she said
I want to go to bed

and sleep
you searched around
by the hedge of the field
and then said

wait
I know where
mine is now
and you led her

to the tent
and unzipped it
and there inside
was the army guy

fast asleep
you can come in here
if you like
you said

but she just stood there
in the semi dark
cussing into the night
come on in

and be quiet
you said
I want my tent
she said

I want my own ****** tent
ok go find it then
you said
and began to climb inside

wait
she said
in a hushed voice
and came over

to your tent
and looked in
what about him?
she asked

he’s asleep
you replied
what will he say
and finds me here?

you gazed
at the sleeping soldier boy
his mouth open
his eyes closed

a soft snore
filling the air
either come in
or go elsewhere

you whispered
I can’t
she said
not with him there

and so she turned
and wandered off
into the semi dark
another chance walking off

into the night
some things you hope for
you murmured
never come right.

On the third day
of the holidays
you met Janice

half way up Bath Terrace
at the entrance to the flats
where she lived with her gran

she was dressed in her red beret
yellow flowered cotton dress
white socks and brown sandals

she smiled when she saw you
and said
feared you might not show

I told you I’d be here
you said
she looked at you

and said
I know
but some people say things

but don’t show
I’m not some people
if I say I’ll be here

I’ll be here
you said
glad you’re here

she said
Gran doesn’t like me
going out alone

she says there are strange men
out there who take kids off
and do things to them

and ****** them
yes
you said

I read about that boy
they found murdered
near here

she looked concerned
don’t worry
you’re with me

my mum told me
where to kick them
if they try anything on

oh
Janice said as you both
walked up to the top

of the terrace
to Harper Road  
where’re we going?

she asked
a bombed out
butcher’s shop

you replied
isn’t that dangerous?
she asked

not if we’re careful
where we tread
you said

isn’t that breaking
and entering?
she asked

no we don’t break in
you said
we walk in

the back gate
it’s not locked
oh

she said
looking concerned
we won’t get into trouble

will we? Gran said
she’d tan my backside
if I got into trouble

would I get you into trouble?
you asked
guess not

she said softly
you crossed
Harper Road

and went round the back
of the bombed out
butcher’s shop

and opened the gate
and entered
into an empty yard

you shut the gate
after you
and she stood gaping

at the back of the shop
you showed her
the large walk in freezer

where meat had once
been kept
now empty

smelling of ****
and damp
what if you got locked in?

she said
the lock’s busted
you said

oh I see
she replied
her eyes large

and her mouth open
in wonder
you took her into

the shop now empty
apart from a large table
with a marble top

where meat
had once been cut
and chopped up

it stinks
she said
yes tramps get in

sometime and shelter
for the night
are they here now?

she asked nervously
no they go off
in the day

you said
giving her
a smile

you took her up
the creaking stairs
to the upper landing

where the sky
shone through the roof
where a bomb

had fallen in
gosh
she said

how weird
one of the rooms
had an old bed frame

pushed in a corner
and the roof
was still there

except where a few tiles
had gone
someone slept there once

she said
and now
they’re probably dead

you took her hand
and walked her
to the window

and looked out
on Harper Road
people would have looked out

of this window too
you said
sad isn’t it

she said
and you sensed
her lay

on your shoulder
her fair haired
red bereted head.