How are things
on your side
of the fence or curtain,
my son?

I think of you
quite often
as well you know
I guess.

Do you visit me
as I sleep or sit
at my PC
tapping in my words
and you stand there
as you used to do
gazing over
my shoulder
with your silent presence?

When I visit your grave
to bring flowers
or stand and talk
are you there
as I stand and stare?

I think your are
and when I walk away
back along the path
between graves
having sighed
and secretly cried
I imagine you
walking there
by my side.

Yehudit sits
at the front
of the school bus
with her sister.

I sit with Goldfinch
on the left hand side
half way down.

She turns
and smiles at me.

Her eyes glimmer
like moonlit waves.

Goldfinch talks
of football.

I hate football
but pretend
to like it,
throwing a few names
I know
into the conversation
to keep away
the silence.

The driver turns
on the radio.

A song about Mr Postman
and a letter comes on.

I look up at her.

She looks at me
the smile still there.

I wish she was here
next to me
instead of Goldfinch;
her thigh touching mine
as we sit,
her elbow brushing
against mine
in conversation.

Her smile seems to say:
remember yesterday?
I remember.

My lips holding
her lips in the that
first kiss.

Her body close to mine.

A pulse racing through me
like a chased cat.

I wish she was here
and not there.

I look up
and she has turned
to the driver and talks.

I wish it was me
she was talking to do,
my eyes
she was gazing into.

I look away
and catch a word
that Goldfinch throws.

How deep love sinks
and holds
no one knows.

Warm midday break
by the maths block
out of sight of others
(teacher gone for lunch)

Yiska sat beside me
against the fence
hair let loose
no ribbon
her mother's borrowed scent
nice as I leaned close to her
touched her hand warm
pulsing slightly

thought about you
all through science
she said

what did you think about?

you and this
she said
being close out
of others' sight

kiss
lips wet
warm
close as close

parted
looked at each other

what do you think
my parents would say
if they could see me now?
she asked

put him down
you don't know
where he's been?

she laughed
no
Mum'd break out
of her dark mood
and most likely spank me
and Dad'd recite
some prayer or worse

I fingered her hair
smooth
soft

best they don't see you then
I said

best my brother
don't know either
because he'd tell
she said

kissed on lips again
my hand felt
along her thigh
her hand touched mine
our eyes searched
each the others'

do you think of me
in class?
she asked

and out of it
I said

she smiled
you would
she said

kissed her cheek
touched both thighs
her hands held mine

watch out
prefect over there
by the English block
she said

we parted
the sense of her lips
still wet on mine

the prefect called out
WHAT YOU DOING?

we walked along
by the wire
where he stood
looking at us
tall
thin
dark eyed

what was you two doing?
he asked

she wanted to know
the history of England
in 1066
I said

he didn't smile
he gazed at Yiska
you get back on the field
he said to her

she went off
he gazed at me
I watched her go away
looking behind
his narrow frame
she looked back
and blew me a kiss

girls aren't allowed
with boys
off the playing field
he said
what were you doing?

nothing but exchanging words
I said

he frowned
you could get into trouble
for this
he said
but seeing
as you were just
talking with her
I’ll let you off this time
now scoot
he said

I walked away
he watched me go
in the distance
on the playing field
I saw Yiska
with her fiends

that's the way
the world goes
I mused
maybe how it ends.

You sit in the Common Room
of the guest house
in the abbey.

The room is silent
except for the chime
of the clock
in the clock tower
every seven and a half minutes.

You look about the room
at the old battered sofas
and the odd chair here and there
and the bookcases stuffed
with Catholic books written
by abbots and priests
about prayer or God
or words of Christ.

You had read one
about the Lord’s Prayer.
Line by line. The meaning.
There’s a knock at the door.

Father Joe enters
and puts his head around
the door and smiles.

He enters the room
and closes the door
after him quietly.

He says
Father Abbot says
you can come
next September
to try your vocation
and he hugs you
and you almost drown
in the black serge
of his stained habit
and you mutter
Thank you thank God
and Oh that’s good news
and he holds you back
to get a good look at you.

Yes he says it’s the will of God.
I knew you had that something
the first time I saw you.

And you smile and feel
as if your feet are off the ground
as if you’d grown wings and could fly.

Well says Father Joe
I must be off
I have others to see
and talk to but I‘ll see you
tomorrow after mass.

And he’s gone
and the room is silent again.

You sit and feel the history
of the room embrace you.

The clock chimes the hour.

The ghosts have gone now.

The monk’s cemetery
is full of them.

You’d seen their graves
and tombstones earlier
in the day. The familiar names.

And amongst them
beneath the leaf
covered ground
Father Joe
lays silent and still now
making no sound.

You want to look how Mother looked.
Makeup she used to use lies on her
Dressing table in the room father has
Had locked up. You have secreted the
Key and unlocked and closing the door,
Are sitting facing your image in the mirror’s
Glass you’ve propped against a chair. You
Do not have your mother’s hair. You have
Her eyes, Father said, although he says it
Less now since her death, as if stealing
From the dead. You want to transform
Yourself into her; be the woman she was;
Have her beauty; have her smile; her gentle
Manner. Cancer took her like thief at night;
Reduced her to a bag of bones and hanging
Skin, pale and thin. Forget that image, Father
Chides, cast it away, lock behind the mind’s
Dark doors. You want to look how Mother
Looked before her sad demise, before cold
Cancer’s deceit and lies. Still a child, Father
Says, you have all your life to live; leave your
Grief behind, but you want to be as Mother
Was, like the coloured picture in your mind.

I guess
I’ll never forget
you sitting there
on that bed
at the end
of that ward.

It seems burnt
into my memory
like some old
piece of film
repeating over
and over
in my mind.

I go over
the last words
you said,
try to get them
in order, try to
unfold each word
as if it were
a puzzle
to be solved.

That look you had,
the deep set eyes,
tired, worn;
the breathing laboured
hard to get;
the puffed up
hands and arms.

You were eating
some chocolate mousse
I think, small dish,
small white spoon,
half eaten sandwich
to one side.

I felt along
your puffed up arm
with my fingers,
felt the hand, puffy,
not the right colour.

We talked,
you slow,
pushing out
the words.

Not a good night,
you said.

Dinner wasn't up
to much, some
doctor came,
some scan
to be done,
you said,
what for?
Dunno,
you replied.

I helped you back
on the bed,
set your pillows
neat and firm.

We talked
some more,
unaware
these would be
your last words,
mundane matters,
not deep
philosophical dealings,
these were
small talk mutterings,
sick bedside chatter.  

No famous last words,
no farewell speech.
I'll see you tomorrow,
I said.

OK,
you said,
closing your eyes
on the bed.

That was it;
last words all said.

Next day,
late afternoon,  
your heart
flat-lined
and you,
my son,
were dead.

Sidney was 5’2’
and weighed 200lbs
and was 79 years old

and each morning
you had to clean him up
and wash and dry
and powder him
and dress him
in his old clothes

but this morning
having done all that
he said
you don’t know
what war is like
you youngsters

he had broken
his usual silence
words instead of grunts
communication
instead of his own
quiet conversation
beneath breath

it’s not like it’s seems
in the films

I guess not
you said
and sat beside him
on the unmade bed

and he told you
of life in the trenches
of blood and guts
and men without arms
or legs or heads
lying there exposed

he paused now
and then
to look
at his arthritic hands
the fingers bent
the nails fresh clipped

he said
I stumbled
into this woods once
by mistake
and there they were
hundreds of bodies
mostly dressed in uniforms
bloodied some
but mostly just lying there
piled in some areas
like hunks of meat
and one of two
were by my feet
as if asleep

here he stopped
and looked at you
young as you
some were
fresh faced
blank of eye
sans gaze
sans life
some one’s husband
or lover or father
or brother

he paused
to stroked his head
with his bent fingers  

never forgotten that
he said
those carcasses
the silent soldiers
the forgotten dead

he was quiet after that
and you got him
off the bed
and on his way
on his frame
along the passage
to the dining room
shuffling
at his own pace
with short moustache
and war memories
lined
on his warrior face.

Sophia's parents
(Polish refugees
during WW2)  
have a large crucifix

above their double bed;
wooden, with a plaster cast
Christ whose features are dour,
some aspects chipped.

She enters the room;
a smell of staleness,
pipe smoke,
her mother's

old fashion scent.
She looks at the crucifix;
kneels on the bed,
and rubs the feet

of the plaster cast Christ;
remember the time
when her parents
were away for the day,

and she brought
that Benny boy in here
and they made love
on the bed,

she laying there,
tapping his buttocks
to ride him on;
looking up

at the features
of the dour Christ,
no change of expression;
Benny's fast breathing

hot by her ear,
the whole arena
somehow surreal,
lacking meaning,

a purposeless show.
After he'd done
and left
and she tidied up

and made the bed
and smoothed
the covers
and looked

at the Christ
the dourness
was still there,
but a sense

of disappointment
hung in the air.

If my old man said
get neat dressed
washed up

and do your hair
we're going
to the cinema

or up West
I washed up
dressed

in my best suit
and Brylcreemed
my hair

and I was there
just him and me
no other to share

I didn't care
I was there
not elsewhere

and it was
ice cream
or lolly

and best seat
in the house
and I was glad

I was there
not elsewhere
just us

I didn't care
yet when
my mother

took us away
and not there
but elsewhere

away from him
I didn't care
I wasn't there

but elsewhere
for he
was a ****** to her

and made her hurt
and cry
and didn’t care

so I was glad
I wasn't there
with him

but elsewhere
with her
for he was not

worth my care
so I was out
of there

and elsewhere
so there
I didn't care.

Bright morning
Yehudit says
as we meet
by the front gate
shame about school
I’d rather we were going
some place
more interesting
somewhere we could be
alone together

we walk down
the side of the road
towards the bus stop

we were
alone together Saturday
well a good part of it

well yes
but that was someone
else's wedding
and we were
in the choir
until afterwards

but the bubbly was good
and those other plates
of posh grub

we wait
by the bus stop
with others

I seem to recall
Roger had his fill
of those and bubbly
she says

I’d have preferred a beer
but the guy
handing them out
said I was too young

you are
you’re only
14 years old Benny

the bridegroom
looked terrified

the bride looked beautiful

she wasn't a bad dish

dish?
dish?
what a thing
to call a bride

the bus was coming
she stops talking
soon we'll sit apart
on the bus
(she doesn't want others
to yak if they see us
together on the bus)

the bus stops
we get on

she sits at the front
with her sister
and I sit towards
the back with Trevor

he talks of football
I watch Yehudit
at the front of the bus
and she looks
back at me

I don't know what
she's thinking
but I know
where I’d
rather be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I smile or break into laughter,
don't think I’ve forgotten you
or the hereafter;
it's just a way

to get through each day
of deep sorrow,
and getting up
to a dark tomorrow,

knowing you won't be there
with your cool stare,
and huggy bear walk,
and soft-toned talk;

and you know, my son,
the value of laughter
with your own
sense of humour

and quiet wit;
so if you see me smile
or hear my laughter,
it's just my medicine

to get through it,
this sadness of grief
and sense of loss
until the hereafter.

If only he wrote poems for
her like Byron did those
whom he knew, if only her

man took time to put pen
to paper, rather than his fist
to her cheek or jaw or pushed

her to the floor to have his way.
She liked the Byron book, kept
it by her bed or in her bag to

take out to read to **** the
words to her head. If only her
man had the good grace to

speak in such a way to make
her feel loved or needed, not
talked to like something on the

end of his shoe or poked about
till black and blue. Maybe one
day he will changed, she mused,

maybe he’ll speak to her in finer
tones in lovers’ words in softer
voice in kinder ways, as if some

inner fire blazed, not bellowed
at or cursed or punched till dazed.
She opened the book and read

her favourite lines, the words
caressed her, brought her joy
and enlightenment, not like him

and his dark side, violence, brutality
and punishment. Reading out loud
is difficult when her lips are swollen

or her bruised eyes are closed by
his vicious rage, then the words
sit silent on the open white page.

I could slit the thin knife
along the inside of my arm
get the right artery
and SPLATTER
blood like some
Biblical flood,
Yiska says.

I sit beside her
in the locked
ward's lounge.

It's warm, cosy
and she's toying
with an idea
but no knife thin
or otherwise.

Just her thin
red painted
fingernail
moving down
the inside
of her arm.

I watch intently.

Will she scratch
herself a slit?
I muse.

Her pink nightgown
sans belt
opens up as she
uncrosses her legs.

Glimpse thigh
pass my eye.

Slowly slit it,
she says,
open up like
a red flower.

The red fingernail
makes an indentation,
but no slit.

Her other arm,
bandaged,
has a recent attempt
of slitting-
some guy
from the male ward's
razor blade borrowed-
should have seen it spurt,
she says,
as I gaze
at the bandaged arm,
shot across the room
like a line of red,
*******, the guy said.

Yiska fingernails
a line deep as she can,
pressing down hard.

Slit you ******* nail, slit,
she says.

Through a gap
in her nightgown's fold,
and legs moving
here and there,
I spy a sight of ***** hair.

I look away;
see the emptiness
of her deep eyes,
where a soul
or mind is wounded
and silently cries.

Lizbeth waited for me
by the milk sheds
(I’d been weighing milk
at the farm)

she was dressed
in a black skirt
and green blouse
her hair loose
about her shoulders

thought you'd never
be out
she said

how did you know
I was here?
I asked

your mum told me
when I called
at the cottage

I didn't know
you were coming
out here
in the countryside
to see me

thought I’d
surprise you
she said
didn't know
you'd be
at the farm

I do it
when I can

how can you be
near cows
they smell
she looked at me
critically
I thought
we could go
somewhere together
she said

what for?
I asked

you know
she said

don't you ever
give up on that?
I said

on what?

you know

she smiled
must be some place
we can be alone
she said

I can't think
of anywhere
I said

what about
your bedroom?

you have been
there before
I said

yes I know
but only to see
your fossils
and rabbit skulls
and butterfly collection
and Spitfire model
she said

I walked on
she followed

we could have
done things
she said

we did
we looked
at my nature collection

I didn't want
to see
your nature collection
I wanted ***
she said loudly

a few birds
flew from the hedge
the word echoed
around the fields
about us
like thunder

maybe some
other day or time
I said
I got to home
and change
out of these clothes

she followed me moodily
through the small wood

I walked quickly
or she'd want ***
there
if she could.

If you have my heart,
Then bruise it not.
Rather if it please,
Hold to your breast

And sense its gentle pulse
Or if pleases more,
Against your cheek,
And feel the sad echo

Vibrate along the jaw.
Do not bruise my heart,
But if pleases place to your lips
And kiss with love or wild desire,

Or if pleases more,
Hold in your hands and move around
With curious gaze as if a gem or object rare.
Bruise not my heart,

But let it beat against your own
Until its gentle pulse and yours
Become as one.

I have you still, my son:
photos, memories,
things you touched,
where you stood,
where you sat,
where you'd been,
where you were at.

I have you still:
tee-shirts, shirts,
wallet, black and leather,
empty now, passport
with your photo inside,
other things of yours
left behind, inherited,
gifts maybe from the dead.

But not the you
I can hug or embrace,
or talk to quietly,
face to face,
not the you
with chuckled laughter,
dry humour and wit,
not any of that,
not one bit.

I have you still:
dreams in black and white
or coloured rather weird
as dreams are, nightmares
walking the dark corridors
of the hospital,
the bed at the end,
you there swollen,
hard of breath,
awaiting death.

I hear the lark, said Alice,
it sings in my ear like an
angel’s voice, brings me
pleasure in my darkest
hour, plays in my mind
like an echoing dream.

I see the morning sun,
its beams dance at my
feet, swirl around like a
child at play, my eyes
rejoice at the sight I see,
dread the thought of
blindness in some new
day’s gift, push away the
ideas as if they were flies,
push all away like one fulfilled.

I smell the lily’s scent, its
aroma brings me out in a
rash of joy, its smell invades
my nose like a vanquishing
army, opens me up to the
pleasures of smell, makes
me want to sniff forever,
drink in until my head swims,
my sleep recalls the aroma’s kiss.  

I feel my lover’s fingers along
my flesh, sense his skin smooth
along mine like a skater on ice,
like one sliding across a polished
floor, the fingers caressing like
a butterfly’s touch, tickling to
laughter, fondling until my voice
says, ah, don’t stop, fill me up,
squeeze all on until the final drop.

I breathe the wind’s breath,
inhale the morning’s freshness,
the air of angel’s exhalation,
my lungs take in like a greedy
girl, sup in each particle as I
dance along, remembering now
the air of summer, the filling
of my lungs like a fish the water,
opening my lips in a happy song,
my voice singing across an open sea.

I ******* lover’s tongue touch
mine, feel the tongue and mine
in dance, lick and lick until the
pleasures erupt, the places engorge
and swell, I taste the saltiness
of my lover’s ***, the sweetness
of the heavenly hive, the tongue
swimming along my lover’s thigh
and arm and on and on, my taste
buds explode into a rainbow of
colours, my tongue feeling like
a snail’s flesh, moving and sensing
until my mind says, No more, no
more and I hear the waves of dark
depression surge in on my shore.

Abela
doesn't like
Schopenhauer
she finds him
depressing

why read him?
she asks me

I like him
he gives me
another
perspective
of the world

but why him?
who told you
about him?

some old dame
I once ******
talked of him

might have guessed
Abela said
who was she?

just a friend
I once had
I tell her

she's quiet
sips white wine
looks around
the street scene
around us
sitting in
the café

she's musing
quite deeply
as dame's do
of other
dames I’ve had

was she good?
she asks me

an ex-nun
I reply

an ex-nun?
she echoes

as a girl
not right now
I tell her

she's silent
sips her wine

Dubrovnik
has its charm

I sip beer
smoke my smoke
read my book
of old man
Schopenhauer

Abela
purred last night
like a cat
after ***
I like that.

You’re ill in bed.
You think you’re
Dying, but no one

Will affirm or deny,
They just come and

Go with smiles and
Kind words and only
Molly comes to wash

And change you and
Feed what little will

Stay down. The bed
Creaks when you move,
The phone beside the

Bed never rings, the
Curtains let in little

Light, the clutter of
Years of living hang
On walls or sit idle on

Shelves gathering dust
Despite Molly doing her

Best and being quite
The one for work and
Bustle. You miss her

When she doesn’t come,
You miss her gentleness,

Her soft touch to brow
And body. But when he
Comes with his beady eyes

And gruff words you feel
The closeness of death

Breathing in your *****.
He’s gone now, business
In the city, meeting to be

Arranged, money to make,
Life to be lived. The house

Is silent now, except for
The far away sounds of
Passing traffic in the street,

The hushing voices down
In the hall or on the corridor

Outside your door. Your body
Aches; the memory of love
And embraces and kissing are

Fading into gloom of day after
Dayness. The children are kept

Away to prevent the spread,
You hear their voices, their
Running feet, soft, soft, soft,

Gone. The time must be getting
Late, you feel the need to urinate,

You wish the curtains were open,
Wish the light would invade.
He comes and stands by your

Bed looking to see if you’re still
Living, he’ll come to the room

Smiling once he hears that you’re
Dead. Molly comes just in time,
Her gentle hands, her soft voice,

Wipes your brow, pumps the pillows
Beneath your head. Just a nursemaid
Now, no more the lover in your bed.

Sonya stood
on the narrow balcony
of the hotel room in Paris

I lay on the bed
reading Celan poems

she was in her underwear
and bra
smoking
a French cigarette

most of the great artists
lived here
at one time or other
she said

I looked over at her
her blonde hair
touched her haunches
her tight ****
smiled at me

most yes
I guess so
I said

can we go
to an art gallery today?
she said
I love the Impressionists
this is the place
to see them

guess so
I returned to the book

where are we breakfasting?

where you like

she exhaled
that little café
on the corner is good
she suggested

you like the waiter
the guy with the Proust moustache

nonsense
it's the coffee
the cake he provides
she said

she gazed back at me
aren't you going to wash
and dress?

I nodded
after you

you're quicker
she said

she was right
ok
so I got up
and went into the bathroom
and washed
and brushed my teeth
and came out

she was on the bed
looking at the book
of poems

how do you
make sense of this?
she asked

open minded
and getting the vibe

she put the book down
and went in the bathroom

I dressed
lit a cigarette
and stood
by the window
looking down
into the Parisian street
below

I love Paris
I mused
love all this
and blew
a passing French girl
a palm blown kiss.

Image is everything,
Clyde tells you. Give
Folks what they want

To see and want to believe,
Bonnie, they don’t want
The **** truth, they want

High heroes, vile villains,
Want them pretty bad. You
Pose, the gun, the cigar,

Even put the left foot
On the bumper of the car.
He prepares to shoot you,

Prepares to take the shot,
Shyly smiles, suggests you
Stare hard into the old box

Camera. You want to laugh,
Run over to him and kiss
His mouth and toss the

Cigar and give him back
The gun and get on with
Life, with being, with the

Hard won fun. Hold it just
There, he says, hold the
Head just so, that’s it, got

You just as they’ll want
To see. You stand and stare,
Sense dark danger in the air.

Some days you try to
Imagine baby’s
Still there, still within

You. Still kicking, still
Moving, the small lump
Growing larger, the

Appetite for odd
Things still on your tongue.
But you know it’s gone,

The stillness like a
Vast universe, all
Quiet with dead stars

And galaxies and
Cold dust. You try to
Pretend the baby’s

Kicking, watch for the
Lump to move, hope the
Death was a bad dream

Drawn out over months,
The doctors lying,
The nurse pretending

That baby had died,
No happy ending.
Some nights if you lay

Quiet and have no
Act of will to doubt,
You can feel it still.

Put your finger
along there
Jane said
gently

and she opened
her hands
to form
a kind of cup

and there
was the butterfly
yellowish with white
it opened and closed

its wings
feel the smoothness
she said
I focused

on her palms
the skin
thinking how lucky
the butterfly was

to land there
I gently touched
its wings
with my finger

gently so as not
to make it
fly off
she was intense

gazing at my finger
the wings opening
and closing  
my finger

was a mere
breath away
from touching
her skin

the warmth
of her palms
I leaned in closer
could smell

apples or fresh air
and her dark eyes
turned on me
and I looked back

at the butterfly
and stroked its
wings again
it flapped

and flew off
and I watched it
go passed
her dark hair

her eyes following it
in the air
and I followed
her hair

the dark and straight
the opened necked blouse
the green skirt
isn't it beautiful?

she said
yes very much so
I said
gazing at

the line of her neck
the area
where her hair
and collar

didn't meet
the jawline
and she
was looking up

at the sky
where the butterfly
flittered amongst
nearby flowers

at the foot
of the Downs
so gentle their wings
she said

she imitated
a butterfly
with her hands
the thumbs

hooked together
flapping her hands
out and in
and looked at them

then at me
should I stroke
the wings?
I said

she smiled
flapping
her hands slowly
so I did

stroking slowly
and gently
the outer line
of palm

with my finger
and she gazed at me
then at my finger
her small tongue

at the corner
of her mouth
beyond her
the butterfly

flittered off
the white and yellow
exchanging
as it went away

my finger
moving up and down
then slowly
moving

like the butterfly
a little bit away.

I want to be with you,
Yiska says.

It's raining,
we're in the main hall,
looking out
at the downpour,
other kids are
in groups talking,
others are playing
card games,
others are running around
playing tag games.

We are together.

Alone together,
not here with these.

I study her
standing there,
her eyes focusing
on the rain,
her arms crossed
in frustration.

Can't be helped,
I say.

We could go elsewhere
and be alone.

She turns
and looks at me.

Where?

Any where’s better
than here.

Let's go see
where is free.

We walk through
the hall,
passing kids,
looking out
for prefects or teachers.

We walk out
in a corridor,
passing other kids
on the move,
prefects rushing by.

In here,
she says,
pulling me
by the hand
into the gym.

She closes the door.

Empty and quiet.

I look around the gym.

Smell of sweat
and wet clothes.

She takes me further in
and we go over
behind the screened
off area
where mats
and equipment are kept.

Here will do.

Do for what?

She kisses me
and draws me
close to her.

I sense her body
against mine;
her small *******
against my chest.

She tastes of
bubblegum and milk.

Her lips are open,
her teeth visible.

I want you,
she says,
I dream of having
you alone.

We are alone.

Not for long though,
be end of recess soon.

I kiss her,
lips on skin,
on cheek,
lips on lips.

We pause
listening to the rain;
outside the upper window
where the raindrops drip.

In dark dreams
I walk again
those empty
hospital corridors

with their dull lights
and smell of disinfect
and death
in those dreams

I look for you again
my son
passing by
the blanks faces

of others
looking at
their eyes
for glimpses of life

or concern
or such  
as humans
sometimes have

I go by
room after room
pass porters
pushing

the occasional trolley
by the various
side wards
passing by

the bright lights
of hospital shops
in the dream
I am hoping

to find you once more
sitting there
on the bed
your back turned

your head lowered
but this time
I am hoping
for a healthier you

my son
not one so ill
so lost
in this dream

sunlight shines
through the window
of the small ward
a bird sings

not that dull curtain
the murmur
of voices
the usual limbo like

air about the place
this time my son
I wish to find you well
looking at me

with your own
familiar smile
not that haunted
expression

and tired eyes
that draw from me
a steam
of deep felt cries.

I’ve worn
your Doors tee shirt.

It fitted you better
than it does me.

I remember you
wearing it
not long
before you died,
the Jim Morrison face
looking out at me
where your stomach
warmly used to be.

I wore it
in a kind
of remembrance;
a need to feel
where once
your body
snuggled up
against the cloth;
wanting to feel
the place
where you had touched,
to sense another feel
where you had been.

I didn’t want
to take it off.

It seemed another
warm embrace
of son and father,
like we did
just now and then,
less so,
for some reason,
as grown men.

I’ve worn
your Doors tee shirt.

It suited you better
than it does on me;
it hangs on me
where it hugged
you tight.

I’ll wear the tee shirt
with the Morrison features,
feel the cloth
which you once felt,
sense the touch
of you once more
in mind and heart;
believe some particle
of you may still
reside in cloth’s
worn hold,
that you
may ever be there
in every fold

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.

Ingrid usually wore
the faded grey
flowery dress
that had seen

better days
I saw her crossing
Rockingham Street
I was getting

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

red eyes
hair unbrushed
where are you going?
she asked

getting rolls
for breakfast
I said
how comes

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

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

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

I looked up
Meadow Row
the early morning sun
was breaking

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

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

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

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

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

her eyes
feeding on me
what now?
she said

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

some cheese
and Ingrid and I
went into
the front room

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

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

And the ice cream van drew off
and you held on
to the side

by your finger tips
until the van picked up
a mild speed

when you jumped off
and tried to remain
on your feet

without falling
and only by sheer luck
or balance

did you manage it
and the other kids
clapped hands

and cheered
but Ingrid said
thought you'd hurt yourself

don't your mother
care about you doing that?
she doesn't know

you said
you don't tell her
what you do?

she said
of course not
you replied

she has enough
to worry about
without me

giving her more worry
Ingrid frowned
but why do it?

holding on to the van
I mean?
because it's there

a challenge
like climbing Mount Everest
I guess

you said
she played
with her fingers nervously

as if knitting
an invisible sock
I worry about you

she said
I guess that's what girls do
you replied

walking through the Square
she by your side
her food stained dress

having yellow flowers
her grey socks
her hair pinned

by steel grips
not all girls
she said

least not about you
you smiled
I hope not

you said
girls **** you dry
always on

about soft things
or about dolls
or babies

or such matters
I don't
she said

I think of you
and you being safe
I'm safe

you said
you patted
your six shooter toy gun

wedged in your holster
and you're safe too
you added

wish I was
she said softly
well apart

from your old man
you said
but apart

from filling him
full of cap smoke
or hitting him

on the bonce
with my six shooter ****
isn't much

I can do about him
you said
she looked at you

smiling weakly
maybe one day
we could run off together

she said
and live in one
of those houses

in the Wild West
you nodded
yes good idea

and I can ride
a real horse
and keep cattle

she nodded
and I can keep house
and have babies

sure
you said
and if your old man

comes worrying you
I can plugged him
full of lead.

There were raised voices. Ingrid heard them. Her father's booming voice over her mother's screech. She stirred in her small bed. Pulled the blankets over her shoulder. Sheltered by the thick ex army coat of her father's on top of the blankets she snuggled down trying to shut out the sounds. It was Saturday, no school. She hated school, hated the tormenting kids, the lessons, the teacher bellowing at her. Only Benedict talked kindly to her, only he made her laugh, took her on adventures round and about, the bomb sites, the cinema, the swimming pool in Bedlam Park. The voices got louder, there was a sound of glass smashing. Silence followed, her mother's screeching began again, her father's booming voices trying to drown her out. Ingrid pulled the blankets tighter around her. She daren't go out along the passage until it was over. Even though she needed to ***, she held it in, thought of other things. Her wire framed glasses lay on the bedside cabinet her mother had bought at a junk shop. The thick lens were smeary, the wire frame slightly bent where her father's hand had clipped them when he slapped her about the head for talking out of turn. There was a small cut on her nose where the glasses had caught. A radio began to play, the voices had stopped. A door slammed. Her father had gone out. She poked her head out of the blankets. Music filtered through into her room from the radio. She got out of bed and stood on the wooden floor boards. Her clothes: dress, cardigan, underwear and socks were laid neatly on a chair where she'd folded them the night before. She opened the door of her bedroom and ventured down the passage to the toilet and shut the door and put the bolt across and sat down. The music played on. Her mother began to sing. She had weak voice, kind of like a child's. Ingrid played with her fingers. Pretended to knit, as her mother had unsuccessfully tried to show her, with imagined knitting needles. As she sat she felt the bruise on her left buttock. Her father's beating of a day or so ago. She knitted faster, fingers racing. She stopped dropped a stitch as her mother called it. She left the toilet and went to wash in the kitchen sink. She wished they had a bathroom like her cousin did. Her parent's bath was in the kitchen with a table that was let down when not in use. She washed in the cold water, her hands and face and neck. Dried on the towel behind the door. Her mother came in carrying a cup and saucer. She set it down on the draining board and looked at Ingrid. Get yourself some breakfast and then get dressed, if your father catches you in that state, he won't half have a go, her mother said. Ingrid went into the living room and got a bowl from the glass fronted cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and poured herself some cereals and added milk from a jug on the table and sat to eat. Her mother brought in a mug of tea for her and put it on the table and went off to the bedroom to make the bed. The music from the radio played on from the living room window she could see the streets below, the grass area beneath with the two bomb shelters left over from the War where she and other sat or climbed or played around. Over the street was the coal wharf where coal lorries and horse drawn wagons loaded up with sacks of coal. She ate her cereals. A train went across the railway bridge over the way;puffs of smoke rose in the air. Below boys played on the grass. One of the boys had offered her 6d to see her underwear, but she had refused. He shrugged his shoulders and said your loss and wandered off. 6d would have bought her sweets, a drink of pop, but she had her pride. She finished her breakfast and sipped her tea. Warm and sweet. She let her tongue swim in the tea. Benedict said he would buy her some chips after the morning film matinée at the cinema. Her mother said she would give her 9d for the cinema, but not to tell her father. As if she would, she mused, watching a horse drawn wagon leave the coal wharf. She drank the tea and took mug, spoon and bowl into the kitchen  and washed them up and left them on the draining board. She went to her bedroom and took off her nightdress. The mirror on the old dressing table showed a thin pale looking nine year old girl with short cut brown hair and squinting brown eyes. She only saw a blur. She put on her glasses and peered at herself. No wonder the boys laughed at her and the girls avoided her. Only Benedict was friendly to her. He said she was pretty. She couldn't see it, the prettiness. She turned. Over her thin shoulder she saw the bruises on her buttocks. Fading. Bluey greeny yellowish. She walked to get her clothes off the chair and began to dress. She wished she had a cleaner dress, she'd worn that one for nearly a week. The cardigan had holes and there were buttons missing. She did up what buttons there were and brushed her hair with the hairbrush her gran had given her. It had stiff bristles and a large wooden handle. She stood in front of the mirror and peered at herself. She put the 9d her mother had given her in her pocket. Ready or not Benedict would be there soon. He knocked his own special knock. Once her father answered and glared at Benedict and asked what he wanted. Benedict said, to see the prettiest girl in the world. Her father glared harder, Benedict simply smiled. How did he do that? How did he do that to her father? There was a tensive wait, her father glaring and Benedict looking passive. Then her father called her to the door and said, this here boy asked for the prettiest girl in the world; he must have got the wrong address. Ingrid went red and looked at Benedict. No, right address and girl, Benedict said,looking by her father's brawny arm at her. How she managed not to wet herself she didn't know. Her father just walked back indoors and left them to talk on the balcony without any more words and she never got a beating afterwards, either. Now she waited for that special knock. That rat-rat and rat-rat. She smiled at her reflection. Prettiest girl. Ugliest more like. Rat-rat and rat-rat. He was there. He'd come. She could hear his voice. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, wet fingered she dabbed at her hair. Time to go, time to get out of there. Her knight in jeans and jumper had come on a white horse to take her away; imaginary of course.

Two sets of pram wheels
a plank(some kid's dad
brought that)

a wooden cross beam
a nut and bolt
to hold

the cross beam
in place
a piece of rope

(Ingrid gave that
an old skipping rope)
an orange box

and the go-cart
was ready
by the bike shed

and Jimmy said
I best drive it first
as I'm the eldest

ok
you said
Ingrid said nothing

she looked at Jimmy
hands in her
cardigan pockets

biting her lip
Ingrid supplied the rope
you said

she deserves
a ride too
sure sure

Jimmy said
climbing
into the orange box

and taking up the ropes
into his hands
right you push

he said
I brought
my mum's prop stick

Ingrid said
you can push with that
she pointed

to a long pole
by the shed door
yes ok

Jimmy said
so you took up
the pole and placed it

in the back
of the plank
and began to push it

through the Square
Ingrid stood watching
as you pushed

the go-cart
at running speed
on on

Jimmy said
and he steered
the go-cart

around the Square
as you ran faster
then let go

and the go-cart
went at its own volition
and you walked

and stood by Ingrid
will he let me ride it?
she asked

he will
you said
or I'll not

push him again
you watched
as the go-cart

slowed down
and Jimmy drove it up
to the bike shed

where it came
to a stop
why'd you stop pushing?

he asked
couldn't push any faster
you said

it needs constant pushing
he said

I'm not a machine
you said
he sat looking

at Ingrid
she can push
he said

she's a girl
you said
I can push

she said
and she took the pole
and shoved it

at the back
of the plank
and began to push it

off as best she could
with Jimmy steering
along by the sheds

and off once more
into the Square
and you watched

her push
her hands tight
around the pole

her legs running
as fast as she could
and there

as she ran
and her skirt rose
you saw red marks

on her thigh
her old man's work
you said with a sigh

then it was gone
as she ran down
the *****

and out of sight
with the sound of Jimmy
cheering her on.

You stood with Ingrid
on the grounds
at the back
of the bombed out

butcher’s shop
on Harper Road
she looked anxiously
about her

her eyes large
behind her
wire framed glasses
are we allowed to be here?

she said
I don’t suppose so
you replied
but who’s to know?

and you walked along
the broken up pathway
to the back
where there was a huge

refrigerator with the door open
she looked in
her hands holding
each other nervously

what if someone got locked in?
she said
the lock’s busted
you said

you can’t be locked in
she looked at the lock handle
which had been
broken off at the end

you peered
in the back door
of the shop
smelling the staleness

and damp and ****
where some old *****
had probably slept the night
or used it as a ******

what’s that smell?
she said
holding her nose
between finger

and thumb
some tramps
****** in here
I suspect

you said
he’s not still here is he?
she whispered
no he’s long gone

they don’t hang around
in daylight
you said
she didn’t look

convinced
and leaned close to you
taking your arm
don't worry

you said
I've got my six shooter
in my pocket
and you patted

your jacket pocket
she looked through the door
you moved inside
and took her with you

her hand clutching
your arm tighter
Holy Mary Mother God
you heard her whisper

you entered the shop
and looked around
at the empty shelves
and the discoloured slab

where they used
to cut up the meat
her hand gripped
you tightly

as you moved into
the passageway
she whispered more
holy words

her eyes large
her small fingers
almost white
on your arm

don’t worry
you said
I’ll not let anything
happen to you

she looked up the stairs
that led up
from the passageway
what’s up there?

she asked
bedrooms and living room
I expect
you said

you climbed the stairs slowly
she held your hand
following behind
you listened for any sounds

her breathing laboured
her hand tight in yours
at the top of the landing
there were three doors

and an open space
where there was a lavatory
and a broken sink
you took her in

through one of the doors
into a room
where the roof
had a huge hole

showing the sky
in the corner
was a discarded bed
with broken springs

and a wardrobe
with the doors hanging off
you took her
to the window

and looked out
onto Harper Road
you smelt her near you
that mixture

of peppermint
and dampness
like one not quite dried out
after rainfall

you both watched
the traffic go by
her hand rubbing
against yours

her 9year old skin
against your
9 year old skin
Innocent as daisies

no sense of trespass
or grasp of sin.

Ingrid stares
at the sea
the wild waves
the seagulls

we've come down
on the coach
from London
organised
by the church
of gospel
worshippers

what are those?
she asks me

they're seagulls

do they bite?

I don't know
want ice cream?

her brown eyes
gaze at me

no money
she tells me

I’ve got some
I tell her

is there lunch?
she asks me

I think so
there's money
from the church
for us kids
from poor homes
I tell her

her brown hair
is pinned back
by steel grips

she smiles wide
her rather
mild buckteeth
beam at me

fish and chips?
she asks me

I guess so

can I be
your girl friend
for the day?

want ice cream?

O yes please
she utters

I go get
2 ice creams
from a van
parked near by

what you want?
the guy asks

2 ice creams
with choc flakes

I watch him
fill 2 cones
with ice cream
then plonk in
2 choc flakes

I walk back
to Ingrid
here you are
I tell her

she takes one
and we walk
on the beach
in the sand
8 year olds
hand in hand.

Ingrid knows
the absence
of real love,

she 's known it
all 9 years
of her life.

Her mother's
indifference,
her father's

strict and cruel
attention,
the beatings,

the cold stares,
the loud shouts,
the harsh threats,

promises
of spankings.
There is just

the one love:
Benedict
from along

the narrow
balcony
of the flats,

9 years old,
brave of heart,
with his sword

painted blue
(his old man
had made it),

false silver
6 shooter,
cap firing

toy hand gun,
gun holster,
leather belt,

with wide grin,
hazel eyes,
with talk of

cowboy films,
Robin Hood,
Ivanhoe,

and she his
pretty Maid
Marian,

so he  says
or cowgirl
borrowing

his rifle,
to shoot down
bad cowboys

or Injuns.
He takes her
to his haunts:

the bomb sites,
the bombed out
old buildings,

the play parks,
cinemas
to watch films

in the dark,
feeling safe
beside him.

He has seen
her bruises,
her medals

of beatings,
the red welts
on her skin;

understands
the reasons,
who did it,

but not why;
giving her
cruel father

the cold eye
or hard sneer
when he sees

her father
in the Square
or passing

on the stair,
*******
two digits

(up you pal)
gesturing
behind her

father's back.
Ingrid knows
the absence

of real love,
she known it

all 9 years
of her life;
except for

Benedict,
her young knight
with blue sword,

and one day,
when they're grown
and left home,

she'll be his
pretty Maid
Marian

love and wife,
so she dreams
in her bed

in the night
of her sad
childhood life.

Go and get
some bread rolls
over the corner shop
Mum said

so I took the offered coins
and went out
the front door
and down the stairs
of the flats

on the second level
I saw Ingrid
sitting on the top step

what are you doing here?

Dad threw me out
said I was too noisy
and said I had to go out
until he'd had
his breakfast

she looked cold
and hungry

when can you go back?

when he says so
I expect

I sat beside her
on the concrete step

had breakfast yet?

no not yet

come with me
I've got to get
some bread rolls
over the shop
then you can have
a bite to eat with me
Mum won't mind
I said

she looked at me
don't think I ought to
in case Dad says
to go back in
Ingrid said

****** him
I said
come with me
if you're not there
he''ll go to work
worrying won't he

shouldn't think so
he'll just paste me
when he gets home
this evening

I'll bring you a roll then
and you can eat it here
I said

she looked at
the steps below unhappily

guess I could come
Dad'll not be out
yet awhile
she said

good come on then
I said

and she got up
and we went down
the stairs
and through the Square
and along

how comes he thinks
you're too noisy?

she looked
at the grey morning sky

don't know why
I guess I talk too much
although I don't mean to
it's just that words
come out
and I can't stop them
as if they've a mind
of their own

Mum don't mind
she'll sit and listen
but Dad ain't got
the patience
or he's in a mood
or someone outside
has upset him
and since my brother
and sister have left
he's no one else
to moan at
apart from mum
and he gives her
what for too
if he's a mind to

we walked down
the *****
and catch a mild
orange sun coming
over the houses
up Meadow Row
and I smiled
and thought
she can talk on so.

Ingrid's right ear
was still numb
where her father
hit her head

as she climbed the stairs
to Benedict's flat
and knocked at his door
he's in the Park

I think Ingrid
or try the bomb site
on Meadow Row
his mother said

so she climbed down
the stairs
her eyes
filled with tears

her hearing like
she was under water
swimming
she crossed the Square

and over Bath Terrace
into the Park
passed by
the flowers beds

the trees
the wire fence
coming into view
her eyes scanned

through the wire
to see if he was on
the swings
but he wasn't

she entered the playground
and searched
but he wasn't there
her heart sank

low ebb feeling
she walked back
through the Park
along the path

and crossed
Bath Terrace
and back through
the Square

passed kids
playing skip rope
or football
some playing a tag game

running
here and there
she walked down
the *****

and over
Rockingham Street
passed the fish mongers
up the narrow pavement

passed the houses
her eyes watery
looking up the Row
hoping he'll be there

passed the public house
where her father went
and got drunk
and round

into the narrow
side road
where the bomb site
spread before her eyes

the coal wharf
on her right
horses and wagons
still there

she scanned the site
walked to the edge
her heart thumping
her eyes  searching

and there he was
over by the wall
of a bombed out house
2 walls gone

roof blown off
him standing there
picking up stones
she called his name

he turned and waved
she hurried towards him
over bricks
and stones

and chickweed
to where he stood  
2 small stones
in his hand

been looking for you
she said
her voice
on the edge

of breaking
what's the matter?
he said
but guessed

saw her watery eyes
her tone of voice
my ear hurts
she blurted out

and held her right ear
with her hand
your old man?
he said

she nodded
and cried
and Benedict
hugged her

his 9 year old arms
about
her thin shoulders
they stood

in the recess
of the bombed out house
sunlight pushing
through the tile less roof

unsure
what to say or do
he kissed her hand
and ear

a catapult wedged
in the back pocket
of his jeans
the small stones

held tight
in his left hand
he kissed the ear again
hoping

it would help
to heal the pain.

I have inherited
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
after your death,

my son;
they sit
neat and tidy
on the bookshelf

by my bed.
I wish it was you
sitting there
quietly, instead.

I have inherited
some of your shirts
and tee-shirts,
many I recall

you wearing,  
some in photos
in my head.
I have inherited

that Christmas jumper,
the one you wore
last year
in white and red,

and your black
flat cap, too.
Wish it wasn't me
wearing them,

but you,
my son, you.
I have a selection
of your rock CDs,

a wallet, photos
and a short story

book you wrote,
but what

I don't have,
my son, is you.

Abela sits
in the café
in the town square.

She's ordered coffee
from the waiter
with the dark moustache
who had given her
a smile
and his dark eyes
had explored her
as he moved away.

Benedict has a headache
and sleeps back
at the hotel.

They had had a row.

Words were said.

She recalls them
as she waits
for the coffee.

You were gawking at her?

I was merely looking.

You slavered
as she walked
by our table.

She wore
a strong perfume.

Benedict undressed.

Your eyes were out
like telescopes,
watching her
Yugoslavian ****.

You imagine things;
I was thinking
of her black
waitress dress.

Abela undressed.

You were thinking
of what was beneath
the black dress.

I wasn't,
you imagine
these things,
you're jealous.

He put on
his pyjamas.

Abela stood
in her underwear
staring at him.

Me?
Jealous of her?
That ******.

She's not a ******,
she's a waitress
at the hotel.

Benedict climbed
into bed.

Abela put on
her nightdress.

Your tongue
was hanging out
as she passed
the table;
she almost
fell over it.

You should be
a column writer
for a gossipy magazine.

You should admit
your guilt.

You should
open your eyes.

Abela got into bed,
pulled up the cover,
turned over
with her back to him.

No ***, then?

Not then or now.

She switched off
her side lamp
and he switched off
his side lamp.

Music played
from a bar nearby.

Voices laughed;
a girl screamed.

Abela's coffee comes,
brought by the waiter
with the dark moustache
and dark eyes.

His eyes seem
to undress her
as he walks away;
his black trousers
caressing
his fine behind.

She sips her coffee,
but he is there,
caressing her
in her mind.

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.

Mrs Clarke pushed
her battered bassinet
between market stalls

not listening
to the stallholder’s
shouts and calls

Helen walked behind her mother
as told holding your hand
So I know where you are

Mrs Clarke had said
you sensed
Helen’s small hand

in yours
her seven year old skin
touching your

seven year old flesh
her thin fingers
encircling yours

We’ll see if they’ve got
a school skirt
for you here

her mother said
turning back her head
Helen nodded

and you noticed
Helen’s enlarged eyes
behind her thick lens

spectacles
searching her mother’s
large behind waddling on

stopping now and then
beside stalls
picking up clothes

searching for a skirt or dress
grey and the right size
Helen whispered to you

putting her head
close to yours
Rice pudding for tea

when we get home
with red jam
and sugar too

if you want
and she smiled
and you said shyly

That’s good
because I’m starving
she looked at your hand

in hers and said
Then we can play
mums and dads

and my dolls
can be our family
her mother stopped

and picked up a skirt
and held it up
to the light

then held it against
her daughter’s waist
judging for size

and you watched
her mother’s hands
red with washing

and cleaning
thinking and gauging
the size and cost

as you studying
Helen’s hand in yours
like a soul lost.

I saw Enid’s old man
go off into the Square
cigarette in his mouth
swagging on his way

I watched him
go down the *****
and out of sight
into the evening's
dimming light

Enid was on the balcony
just over the way
she waved to me

we met
on the concrete stairway
with the electric
light bulb above us

he's gone out then I see
I said

yes to the pub for a drink
she said

why did you watch him go?
miss him being there?

she looked up the stairs
then down the stairs
no just making sure
he went
she said softly

the light bulb showed
a bruise on her chin

been at you again?

she rubbed her chin
hit my chin on a door
she said

the door he pushed at you
or the door he pushed you into?

she said nothing
but walked up the stairs
to the balcony
outside my parents' flat

I followed her
she leaned over the edge
and gazed into the Square
it was quiet
the kids gone indoors
the moon bright in the sky
stars shining

it was an accident
she said
he didn't mean it

I studied her
the dark hair straggly
her dull dress
her eyes rabbit-like
in fear

mustn't tell no one
she said
looking at me

I won't
(I told my mother later)

she rubbed chin
with her fingers
it must be me
he doesn't hit
my big sister or brother
he glares at me
she added
in a whisper

I moved closer to her
she smelt of damp clothes

if I were bigger
I’d punch him
down the stairs
I said

you're 9
she said
he's 35 and twice your size  

I looked at her
and smiled
I had him in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
the other day
and when the cap went
BANG
he nigh on messed his pants

she laughed
then looked worried
did he see you?

he looked up
but couldn't see me
through the metal grill

she relaxed
and leaned her head
on my arm

next time
I’ll use my Wyatt Earp rifle
and get him in the back
she nodded
and I gazed
at the sky
turning black.

Lydia
stops me from
thumping Hem

even though
he'd bruised her
earlier

that morning
on her arm
let it go

she tells me
I've seen Hem
in the Square

sneaking back
like some fox
having been

after hens
we're both 9
Hem's older

but skinny
I watch him
beneath us

looking down
from the third
balcony

of the flats
where I live
her thin arm

loops through mine
to hold me
ain't worth it

she tells me
but she knows
I'll have him

at some time
hound him down
like the fox

that he is
one morning
while she sleeps

in her bed
and I'm up
looking out

from my high
balcony
like a hawk

for its prey
I'll get him
I tell her

smiling soft
on a day
in my way.

You're not eating properly
Eliane's mother said
you've hardly eaten a thing
Elaine who'd been thinking

of the boy John
looked up
through her glasses

at her mother
at the dining table
got to eat
her father interjected

got to eat
my young Plump Hen
her sister said nothing

but grinned
I do eat
Elaine said
but she didn't feel

like eating
it seemed the least
important thing

at that moment
her stomach felt
as if it had fallen
into a slumber

not enough
her mother said
maybe she's fallen in love

her father bantered
Elaine went red
and lowered her head
and began to nibble

at the food on her plate
nonsense
her mother said

it's some silly
slimming diet
I bet
not very successful

if it is
her younger sister said smiling
John had touched her arm

in passing at school
not by accident
but by design
he meant to touch

to bring her briefly
into his world
his circumference

she still touched
now and then
the area on her arm
he touched (at school)

with her fingers
I won't have you dieting
over some silly fad

her mother went on
but Elaine ceased listening
the words were buzzing flies
she wanted to

flick them away
with a hand
John had talked to her

not at her
or about her
(as others did)
or down to her

but with her
in a duel thing
he and she

kind of exchange
she ate slowly
the food almost
making her gag

getting stuck
in the throat
she held onto

the image of him
in her mind tried
to focus
on his outline

on his features
his words
taking each one

she could remember
and turning it over
in her mind
as if it were

a rare gem
girls your age
what are you now?

14 yes 14years old
ought not to diet
her mother said
breaking into Elaine's head

if I see you not eating again
I'm taking to the doctors
Elaine looked up

and put on
her good daughter face
that I'll do
whatever you want features

and John had placed
a hand by her head
at the school fence

his arm brushing softly
against her hair
and he never said anything
unkind about

her dark hair
or the metal grips
her mother made her wear

and her mother rattled on
but Elaine just returned
her innocent girl
stare.

He'd already
slit his wrists
and tried
to hang himself

in the crapper
from the water
pipe system
and now they kept him

in the locked ward
sans belt or laces
and kept him
in sight

of at least
one nurse's sharp eyes
but still he managed
to liberate laces

from some old guy's shoes
while he slept
and had just about
tied one end

of the tied laces
to the pipes
when a nurse
seeing him

through the curtains
raised the alarm
and banged
on the door

and raised
merry hell
but he just set about
his slow task

attempting to put
the narrow noose
about his head
when some big

male nurse
(ape build)
banged open
the door

and pulled him down
sans the laces
and pinned him
to the floor

Benedict smelt
body odour
and cheap aftershave
and still

the ape nurse
held him down
there was that
Beatles' song

on the radio
on the locked ward
HELP
I need somebody

the nurse joined in
the chorus line
Benedict caught sight
unwittingly

of the female nurse's
pale pink *******
as she moved
on over to help

and her perfume
was better
and has she
pressed down

nearer
to give aid
he closed his eyes
gentlemanly

so as not to view
the cleavage
coming his way
can’t have

too much excitement
(he mused darkly)
in one suicide
attempting day.

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

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

The Coltrane LP
by my side.

What's beyond
the horizon?
She asks.

Black space,
dead stars
and maybe planets.  

But beyond them,
what's there?

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

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

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

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

The drug issue
is not going so well.

I see her arms
are punctured anew.

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

I can see you back
to the hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stockholm
Moira said grumpily
I wanted
to go to Greece

but the **** war
put a stop
to that
she was sitting

with me
in a small café
she was in denim
with a pink blouse

smoking
a menthol cigarette
I like it here
I said

it's clean
and the girls
are nice and ****
and I am not?

she said
staring at me
her Scottish tones
sharp as razors

present company
included
I said smiling
she didn't smile

her lips were thin
and her eyes
were icy blue
I think have

Swedish roots
I said
she inhaled
and looked away

I’m fed up
she said
that Yank woman
is getting to me

with her talk
of men and ***
and how much
she can have them

eating out
of her hand
and I have to share
a tent with the *****

why she can't share
with the men
in camp
is beyond me

I don't fancy her
at all
I said
I should hope not

Moira said
I had you down
as one with taste
I lit a cigarette

and watched her
sitting opposite
she sipped
her *** and cola

your brother said
you were engaged
I said
what's that to you?

she said
nothing except
I can't imagine you
engaged to anyone

well I’m not
any more
I gave him the elbow
always after

getting me
into his bed
after a night out
what's wrong

with men
can't they just
have a night out
without ***?

guess not
I said
I drank my beer
and studied her

moody features
anyway
she said
hope you're not

expecting anything
after this wee
drink and smoke?
I wouldn’t dream of it

I said
but I had
but I didn't her
well not

at that time
I had to wait
for her mood
to clear

and her heart
to soften
and the Yank dame
to take a hike

to some guy's bed
and I made plans
but only
in my young guy's head.

Who is the boy?
Sophia's father asked.

Sophia looked at him:
the greying moustache,
dark eyes,
short,  
but solid build.

A friend from work,
she said.

Her mother walked
in the background
never interfered.

What's his name?
The father asked,
examining her,
eyes searching
her features for signs
of lies or deception.

Benedict,
she replied,
good Catholic boy,
nurse.

The father
walked past her,
then circled her.

She thought of Benny
having nodded
and spoken briefly
to her parents then
had left the house.

Good ***.

Miał dobry ****,
she said to herself
in Polish,
pretending she was
talking to her father.

Not dare.

Good Catholic?
Her father said,
he come to the house
and no one to safe guard
your honour here?

We talked; had coffee,
she said,
thinking of the safe things.

Those outside
may think otherwise,
he said.

Who?
Sophia asked,
sensing her father
walking behind her,
as he did when
she was a child,
then WHACK WHACK,
he did to her as a child.

Now he just walked
around her, hands behind
his back.

Neighbours see
these things,
think what they think,
he said,
in front of her
staring at her eyes.

Those who sin, see sin,
she said,
holding herself firm,
eyeing her mother
in the background,
no words,
not a sound.

This Benedict,
he likes you?
The father asked.

Yes, he does,
she replied,
thinking of Benny
******* *******.

He must consider
how it could looks
to others,
her father said,
not come while
we are out.

She nodded,
looked at her feet,
wiggled her toes.

He may come while
we are here,
her father conceded,
eyeing her firmly,
walking away,
hands behind his back.

She breathed out
relieved
no whack
whack whack.

Behind Sister Bridget's
black habited back
one legged Anne

gave her a one fingered
up you sign
the nun unaware

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

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

but her wide eyed stare
betrayed
she never would

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

hey Skinny kid
Anne said
in lowered voice

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

in war films
or on TV
how about we sneak

into town?
the Kid impassively
shrugged

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

that decided it
and he nodded
and as the nun

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

from sicknesses
or burns or accidents
Anne and the Kid

sneaked off back
towards the big house
now a nursing home

for children
she on her crutches
he following behind

looking back
towards the lawn
and once inside

they ventured out
the side door
along the path

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

pass traffic
she crutched along
the Kid bringing up

the rear
her one leg treading
the paving

the stump swinging
silently
beneath her skirt

and the Kid
catching her up
walked beside her

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

with all those
other kids
and those holy nuns

with their tall tales
and frustrated dreams
the Kid said nothing

he was thinking
of the night
she wanted him

to scrub her back
in the bath
or that other time

when he helped her
from her wheelchair
and accidentally

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

of her words
and the secret feel
had him wandering

outside
his safety zone
like a child at night

finding themselves
in the dark
all alone.

Lizbeth stares
at her hands

opened up
palms upward

lines across
the skin where

Benedict
had held her

his palm there
squeezing tight

holding on
puts fingers

to her lips
where he kissed

his moisture
there somewhere

wanted more
more of him

inside her
as she's seen

in the book
her friend gave

a picture
of a man

and woman
having ***

he on top
she beneath

the man's ****
beautiful

she had thought
the long legs

benedict
would just kiss

or hold hands
nothing more

we're just kids
he had said

when she had
said they could

in the barn
in the church

in her room
all alone

her mother
out shopping

or maybe
in the field

hidden by corn
but not him

leaving her
feeling numb

unfulfilled
just them there

holding hands
and kissing

no *******
in the field.