Between you and me,
I kiss your photograph
when I pass,
the one on my phone
or the ones in frames
or  behind glass.

I do it secretly
so no one else
can see,
just between
you and me.

Sometimes
I blow a kiss
from my palm,
hoping it
will reach you
wherever you are,
a mere spiritual
world away
or maybe so
not quite far.

Some days,
I hold things
which were yours,
try and sense
the feel of you,
the scent of you
within the cloth
or book or other things,
holding tight to see
what comes or what
you may bring.

There is a part of me
that's forever lost,
part of me
that has a hole,
a scar, a wounded
heart and mind;
but also there are
parts of you which
none can take,
the link of memories,
the genetic hold
within me still,
your sound of voice,
the way you were
and stood, joked,
laughed or looked,
that picture of you
within my mind,
which none can see.

I kiss your picture
when I pass, secretly,
between you and me.

The kiss, Alber knows,
is the sign of great love
or great betrayal. Juliette
presses her lips to his.

There is spittle there
Somewhere, but neither
cares nor senses any of that.

In between kisses she talks
of the pregnant black cat.

He remembers his first kiss,
that girl whose mother never
trusted him as a boy, gave
him his first joy. Where had
it been? he asked inwardly,
pressing his lips to Juliette’s,
ah, yes, in the porch of her
parent’s house, the moon
bright, stars out like sprinkled
sugar on an expanded black cloth.

And about their heads that
**** moth. Juliette saying,
funny how they have such
low bellies, pregnant cats,
and have so many. He moves
his tongue inside her mouth,
along her teeth, touching her
tongue, exchanging warm fluids.

He presses his hands onto her
buttocks, feeling the softness
through cloth. She silent now,
and there about their heads,
that big brown fluttering moth.

Miss G walks
down the aisle
between desks

the Chopin
playing loud
from an old

gramophone
on her desk
Reynard sits

beside me
his eyes closed
pretending

he likes it
but really
in his head

he's thinking
of football
Yochana

sits at front
her dark hair
shoulder length

her elbows
on the desk
her thin hands

together
the fingers
counting time

such fingers
so stick like
I study

how they move
fingers tips
pacing time

her thin frame
her profile
as she turns

angelic
but too pale
and the cheek

which I kissed
some weeks back
seems to wait

(I presume)
for me to
kiss again

but slower
the next time
not a peck

but a big
hot smacker
of my lips

on her cheek
or soft lips
or neck or

wherever.

Her parents
row at night
Fay heard them

from her bed
her brothers
young and small

innocent
in their sleep
she held tight

in her hand
her wooden
rosary

her small thumb
rubbed over
the plaster

crucified
two voices
in conflict

high and low
a duet
that threatened

harsh violence
Fay's body
huddled up

beneath wool
coverings
if only

Benedict
could be there
him there now

at the foot
of her bed
her 12 year

old white knight
and she his
12 year old

young princess
of their twin
childlike game

but he's not
he sleeps in
his own bed

in a flat
on the next
balcony

beneath hers
if only
he would come

sword in hand
standing there
at the foot

of her bed
protecting
with his mum's

small saucepan
a helmet
on his head.

Miss A looks across
the class at me.

Benedict, what's
the difference
between may and can?

I look at her
standing there
built like a brick
out house;
arms folded,
hair brushed back.

May and can?

Yes, if you said to me
can I go out to play?
I would say, yes,
you can, but no
you may not.

I look at the boy's head
in front; his hair is short,
the colour jet black.

Understand,
Benedict?
she says.

No, not really,
I say.

A titter
of small laughter.

She looks at the titterers
and stares them to silence.

Anyone know?
She asks.

Enid raises a hand.

Yes, Enid?
Miss A says.

When I say, can,
I’m asking of possibility;
when I ask, may,
I’m asking permission,
Enid says.

Miss A looks at her;
her eyes searching
the girl's features.

Where did
you read that?

Enid looks at me;
Benedict told me.

Miss A frowns,
then looks at me.

Did you?

I forgot about it.

The teacher raises
an eyebrow,
then says,
that is roughly
what it means,
the difference between
possibility and permissibility.

The room is silent;
Enid lowers her hand;
Miss A writes it
on the blackboard
in chalk.

I smile at Enid
unable to talk.

Moonbeams in your eyes
Revealing your labyrinth
I am lost there too.

The priest performed
a simple solemn service
for the internment
of your ashes.

Your close family
were there
by the graveside;
the small dug hole,
the sacred plot,
the green carpet.

Your sister brought
your wooden casket,
carrying you
for the last time.

Your nephews and nieces
cried as did we all
inside or out.

I guess you were there,
my son, in spirit
looking on, taking in
the whole service
from start to end;
the flowers;
the wooden casket
with your name on top;
watching your brother
place it carefully
in its resting place;
ashes to ashes,
the priest said,
but the soul lives on,
his words meaningful
in the afternoon warmth,
the sun lazily there;
bird song;
you listening,
my son, nearby,
silent as you
usually were,
eyeing the proceedings,
sensing our loss
and ache
at your departure
in a ****** sense;
but you are
here and there
in spirit
as our recompense.

Where he said he’d meet
You, on the beach, Lake
Michigan. But he

Never showed; you just
Waited until the
Tide went out and the

Sun lowered itself
In the sky like a
Fat lady on her

Chamber ***. There were
Few people on the
Beach, even less when

You realized that he
Wasn’t going to
Come and turned for home.

You’d worn your new coat
And hat, had your hair
Done, your face made up,

All for that. Him not
Showing. The wind blew
At your clothes, lifting

The hem of your long
Dress, revealing your
Ankles and shoes. You

Watched the sea and wide
Horizon, waiting
Patiently, smelling

The sea salt, hearing
The roar of waves on
The sandy shore. Still

He never showed up.
Never came, despite
His kind promises,

Despite all the hot
******* the day
Before. All lies it

Seemed, him, his soft words,
And his deep blue eyes,
Deceiving beneath

The shell. There was a
Chill, a biting of
The flesh, a nipping

Of the thin fingers;
But hope was still there
Inside, despite all

That, like smoke hangs in
The still dry air, like
An echo lingers.

Where he said he’d meet
You, on the beach, Lake
Michigan. But he

Never showed; you just
Waited until the
Tide went out and the

Sun lowered itself
In the sky like a
Fat lady on her

Chamber ***. There were
Few people on the
Beach, even less when

You realized that he
Wasn’t going to
Come and turned for home.

You’d worn your new coat
And hat, had your hair
Done, your face made up,

All for that. Him not
Showing. The wind blew
At your clothes, lifting

The hem of your long
Dress, revealing your
Ankles and shoes. You

Watched the sea and wide
Horizon, waiting
Patiently, smelling

The sea salt, hearing
The roar of waves on
The sandy shore. Still

He never showed up.
Never came, despite
His kind promises,

Despite all the hot
******* the day
Before. All lies it

Seemed, him, his soft words,
And his deep blue eyes,
Deceiving beneath

The shell. There was a
Chill, a biting of
The flesh, a nipping

Of the thin fingers;
But hope was still there
Inside, despite all

That, like smoke hangs in
The still dry air, like
An echo lingers.

That last time
we talked, my son,
the very last,
unknown to us,

never ventured
on profound subjects,
(as they do in films
or heroic novels)

we conversed
on the mundane:
how did you sleep?
What was the food like?

or trying to explain
the puffed up limbs
and pain( having
complained to the nurse

about your visual state)
when you did you pass
***** last? and some
such usual things.

You were tired
your eyes were closing,
and unknown
to either of us,

you were probably dying
for the first time, then,
without priest
or prayer or amen.

What was it like
that first time?
Revived, they
called us in,

while they set you up
to machines and monitors
and wires and tubes
and all such things.

You were comatosed,
eyes closed, lying there,
hands at your sides,
puffy and discoloured.

Did you hear us talk?
Did you know
we were there?
We held your hands

at the end, my son,
wanted you to stay,
wanted you
to be with us,

but death took you quickly,
far and away.

This was her last death
All others were rehearsals.
Goodnight my lovely.

When he wanted a fix
Or money for a fix
It was to your handbag
He went first; he'd root through

It like a pig searching
For wild truffles, and he
Wasn't gentle in his
Search either, grabbing you

Tightly, trying to pin
You down, especially
If you tried to hide your
Bag behind your back, then

He got really rough, and
All your love/hate for him
Surfaced like some waking
Cat and you'd pounce at him

And the struggle'd begin
And the whole block knew all
About it and the air
Was blue with language of

A kind your mother would
Never use even on
A bad day, and maybe
Then he'd get the handbag

Open and he'd root through,
His eyes large as an ox
And his tongue hanging out
The side of his mouth like

Some stupid dog and you
Knew him then as a dim
Specimen of all men,
He was a degree course

In men logy and
You had the knowledge in
Each pore and tissue of
Your body and mind and

You'd stand still and watch him
Shaking your head, wishing
To Hell, he'd take his last
Drugged up fix and be dead.

It was her final letter,
The last love letter before
Her death. He held his breath; sat
Down in a chair, stared slowly

At the pink envelope held
Between warm fingers and thumbs.
He sniffed along the rim for
Any perfume she may have

Left for him; some hint that she
Had held it long before she
Posted; none was there. He slit
Along the top, opened up,

Took out the folded letter
With care, her sweet perfume hit
The air. He then unfolded
The paper and set it straight.

Her writing; that way she had
Of twirling her first letters,
The fine hand, the perfect word.
He read slowly through, taking

Each word in his mind, turning
It over, letting each word
Pour out its purpose, its sense,
Its love. He read a sentence,

One that took his breath away,
Which made him ache. “That last time
You held me and kissed me in
L.A, made me feel wanted,

So alive, so real. I love
You so much, and cannot wait
Until next week when we can
Seek each other out, and kiss

And love until our throbbing
Hearts give out.”  Her final words
Came after, “Love you always,”
And her scribble name above

A row of cross like kisses.
It’s hurtful what one loves best,
He mused, what one most misses.

Yehudit looked back
at Benedict-
at the back
of the classroom

more with
that boy Rolland-
but he looked elsewhere.
Something the boy showed.

Titter of laughter.
Miss G, the teacher,
looked at them.
Clapped her hands.

Her bespectacled stare
silenced them.
Yehudit looked back
to the front, the blackboard,

something written
on Beethoven's life and music.
Miss G walked in front
of the class

talking of the last
string quartets.
Yehudit thought
of Benedict and her

by the pond
the previous day.
Sun warm upon them
as they sat on the grass.

She talked of the ducks
and swan and the heron
that landed nearby.
He listened,

but thought of kissing
and holding or so
he later said.
Miss G put on a record

of a string quartet.
Yehudit looked back
and Benedict smiled
and that made her day

and she never heard
the string quartet
of Beethoven
as it played away.

Her last suicide.
Others had been rehearsals
practised in dark rooms.

After asking a nurse
where he was
we find Ole at the end
of the ward
sitting on the side
of a bed
attempting to eat
a sandwich.

He is puffed up,
his hands swollen,
his arms too;
his face looks puffy.

I am shocked how much
he had altered overnight.

What's happened to you?
Has anyone seen you
like this?

He shrugs his shoulders,
looking at us.

I take his free hand
and feel it with mine.

It must be water retention;
when did you urinate last?

Early this morning, I think.

You ought to have
a catheter in
to get rid
of the excess *****.

Have they suggested that?

He has a job breathing;
his words are  soft
and yet strained.

No, but I did see
a doctor this afternoon.

What did he say?

They're investigating.

He labours for breath;
puts the sandwich down
on the small bed table;
sips the orange juice.

Stay here,
I say to his sister.

I go off down the ward
and find a nurse
in a dark uniform
who looks like
she may be in charge.

Yes? She says,
looking at me
as if I’d just walked
through dog's doings.

I'm not happy with the way
my son's being care for.

Who's your son?

I tell her.

What's the problem with him?

You should be telling me that;
he's all puffed up and swollen;
he can barely hold
a glass to drink;
his breathing is bad,
could be asthma-
he’s suffered that for years;
and why hasn't he got
a catheter in
to take away
the excess *****?
he had a job passing
***** yesterday;
I assume that's what
the letter said
we brought in
yesterday evening.

I can't put a catheter in
without a doctor's say so
and he is in A&E;
at the moment
they're having a rush.

But my son needs to see
someone soon;
he can’t go on like this.

I assure you he is
being cared for,
but as soon
as the doctor returns
from A&E;
I will ask him
to see your son.

It's upsetting
to see him like that;
he's not one to complain;
but that's no reason
to let him be as he is.

I will get a doctor to see him
as soon as he returns,
she reiterates.

I am fuming;
the whole ward
seems to have
a dark circle about  it.

I've just been to the nurse
to complain
about your treatment
or lack of,
I say.

His sister looks at me
then at Ole.

I'm going to sit
in the waiting area;
I can't stand seeing you
in this state,
she says.

She walks down
the ward upset
and then out of sight.

I look at him sitting there;
I sit beside him
on the side of the bed
and put my arm around
his broad shoulders.

The abandoned sandwich
he puts back in the packet.

Want some more orange juice?

He nods.

I pour him a glassful
of orange juice
which he drinks down
in silence.

I ask him various
mundane questions
about how he slept
and the hospital food
and did he eat any.

A little; it hurts my jaw
to move it too much.

I ask him if he wants anything
else to eat or drink,
he says no.

He tries to lay down
on the bed
so I help him
the best I can
to sit back
and arrange his pillows
so that they
are behind him comfortably.

He lays there;
his breathing heavy.

I ask a few more questions
which he answers slowly.

He closes his eyes, tired.

I best go;
leave you to rest.

He opens his eyes.

I'll be up tomorrow
and bring more clothes
and stuff.

Ok.

I kiss his forehead;
touch his arm
and go back
along the ward.

The last conversation
between father and son;
death hanging
by the door.

I can say no more.

The last time Benedict
saw his mother
she was lying
in a hospital bed,
eyes closed, mouth
slightly open, dead.
He'd been told by a nurse
over the phone of her demise,
the voice matter of factly
pronounced the words,
the meaning came in later.

He thought of her, whom
he'd seen the evening before,
the last smile and wave
she'd given, although held
by dementia she seemed
aware he( or someone) was there.

Now she had gone, moved
to a spirit world he assumed
or hoped, although he sensed
her loss, like a ripping apart
and smash grab of his heart.

He had, he recalled, kissed
her forehead the last time
that evening prior, the skin
cool, wrinkled less, seeming
at rest. 91 years old was not
a bad innings he supposed,
holding onto that final image
of the previous evening, not
the final one where her body
lay deserted, the emptied shell,
that usual sickly hospital smell.

No, he wanted the last image
to be of her smiling and waving,
not drowning sickly, but saying
a goodbye, seeing half-blindly,
that look in her eye, seeming
to say: we all come, all must die.

He still feels the loss, the empty
place in his heart, the vacant lot,
but the memories cram into the little
boxes in his brain, a holding on,
till, hopefully, happier, they meet again.

Bird song
and the sun
high in the sky

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

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

no bus yet awhile
I said

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

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

we have time then
I said

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

how much time?
she asked

hour or so
before the bus comes
I said

she looked
into my eyes

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

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

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

maybe you
should be with him
and not me
I said

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

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

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

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

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

I guess

I smelt her perfume
not her usual
different
more powerful

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

our lips met
her hand
touched my thigh

O heck
I said
to hell
with this other guy

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

The African
American
Guy sitting on

A bench in the
Laundromat gives
You the eye, the

Kind of I’ve been
Around awhile
Stare, not a bit

Unfriendly, but
Maybe bemused,
Wondering why

A white dame would
Want to look at
Him for and him

Alone in this
His kingdom of
Machines twirling,

Cleaning while they
Toss water and
Foam. Better than

Watching TV,
He drawls, all got
The same channel,

But different
Cycles, diverse
Clothes, all kinds of

Dirt and dullness
And sins to wash
Away. You were

Never good at
Small talk, but you
Try to say a

Few words and smile,
Putting yourself
At ease. Can’t wash

Your soul here though,
He says, showing
A bright gleam of

White teeth, just sit
Still and stare
And contemplate.

You unpack your
Bag of wash and
Sense his eyes fixed

On you, his mind
Ticking over,
As you place in

The clothes large and
Small. An old white
Guy comes in here

Everyday,
He says all of
A sudden, brings

His wash, sits and
Stares, mumbles to
The machine, while

Watching the same
Few items of
Clothing go round

And round. You nod
Your head and take
In his tee shirt,

Shorts and woollen
Hat, his socks and
Shoes and wonder

What your mother
Would have made of
Him had she been

Here. This place’s
A kind of dull
Purgatory,

Where souls wait for
Their time to come
To go to Hell

Or Paradise.
He laughs, moves his
Legs back and forth,

Pushes his hat
Further back on
His head. Maybe

We’re already
In Paradise,
Maybe this is

It. You and I,
Both sitting and
Staring at these

Washing machines,
But really in
Essence, we’re dead.

You turn your back
To watch your wash,
See the whites twirl

Like fond lovers
In the water
And sickly foam.

When you look back
Again he’s gone.
Maybe to Hell

Or Paradise
Or just back home.

Having left Benedict
having to to go back
to lessons after
lunchtime recess

Yiska sensed her body
kind of rebel
sitting at the desk
as the teacher Miss N

began outlining
the brainwashing
for the period
something about

some Magna Carta
in 1215
it seemed her body
wanted something else

and as she sat
gazing at the black board
it seemed to leak
as if

she was
melting down
as if part of her
was seeping away

and even as she
picked up her
fountain pen
to begin to scribe

what Miss N
had started to write
on the board
her -what her mother

termed was her
down below-
seemed to feel
as if a flood

was about to begin
a leakage
as if some dam
had revealed

a weakness
in the structure
a thin line of parting
Miss N spoke

of Runnymede
as she scribed
on the board
with chalk

boring talk
and Yiska wanted
Benedict to be there
wanted his kiss again

his lips on hers
warm on warm
wet to wet
his hand along

her spine
his fingers feeling
her bra strap
and she feeling him

against her
yes it felt
like leakage
and even as she

dragged her mind
into Runnymede
and the Magna Carta
in 1215

and all
such history
she had the sensation
of the leakage mystery.

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

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.

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

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

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

with me?
and she says
yes
so I look around

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

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

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

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

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

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

to a Catholic school
once we leave
junior school
this year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that will be
punishment in itself
let alone
the tough kids

and teachers
who're mostly
ex-army
I say

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christine
whom some ****
had left at the altar
stood beside you

looking out the window
of the locked ward
of the psychiatric hospital
into the snowy grounds

why did he leave me
at the altar?
Why didn’t he just say
he didn’t want to marry me?

she asked
you turned to look at her
her hair long
and over her shoulders

covering the top part
of her flowered dressing gown
I don’t know
you said

wondering why the creep
had done that to her
leaving her in that state
she was in

he must have been a fool
not wanting to marry you
you said
she gazed at you

her blue eyes
reaching out
like invisible fingers
to touch you

I was the fool
she said
I should have known  
snow was falling

on the windowsill
fresh and cold
and clean and white
she looked away from you

and watched the snow
someone said
you tried to hang yourself
she said softly

studying the snowflakes
on the trees
out in the grounds
so they say

you replied
I can’t remember
the radio behind
was playing

Hey Girl Don’t Bother Me
by a group
called the Tams
the dj said

you caused quite a fuss
the other day
locking yourself
in the john

and putting the belt
of your dressing gown
over the water pipe
Christine said

they thought
you were going to do it again
I guess so
you replied

she moved her left hand
to touch yours
we’re like broken dolls
she said

far off in a field
a tractor pulled a plough
through the snow
and gulls flew down

and up behind it
as it went by
her hand sent sparks
through your nerves

when it touched yours
broken dolls
you said
or puppets

with strings cut through
and tears filled her eyes
and she whispered
what is one to do?

The Kid sits
opposite
the wheelchair

with Anne
telling him
about her

painful leg
when it aches
it frigging

drives me mad
she tells him
she pulls up

her red skirt
to show him
the naked

stump of leg
yet it aches
in the part

that's not there
she explains
he gapes at

the fleshy
stump of leg
why is that?

he asks her
how the heck
would I know

pull that down
this moment
the nun says

angrily
coming near
from the home

her black and
white habit
flapping quick

about her
Anne stares
at the nun

what's got your
white knickers
in a twist?

she utters
to the nun
who do you

think you are
showing off
your leg stump?

she yanks down
the red skirt
to cover

the leg stump
don't touch me
you penguin

Anne says
decency
my young girl

you Benny
why are you
watching her?

the nun asks
I showed him
where it hurts

Anne says
you shouldn't
show your leg

it's my leg
what is left
don't be rude

the Kid looks
at the nun
just looking

what she showed
just her stump
he explains

you mustn't
the nun says
anymore

doing that
young Anne
and I'll tell

Sister Paul
and the nun
walks away

her habit
flapping slow
about her

as she walks
what a dumb
arsed penguin

Anne says
they both watch
the young nun

as she walks
on the lawn
to the home

for sick kids
by the sea
anyway

that's my leg
or the stump
do you want

another
look and see?

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.

Let him wait,
she says,
drying under arms
after her bath,
the towel rubbing the skin,

talcum powder
on the side
ready to be applied,

he downstairs waiting,
impatient no doubt,
pacing up and down
or sitting smoking,
cursing under his breath.

A woman’s privilege
to take her time.
Beauty cannot be rushed.

She moves the towel
further down,
rubs between her thighs.  

Even as a child
she imagines
he was impatient,
unable to wait,
unwilling to be kept
against his will
until the time was right.

She smiles.
She senses
the towel’s roughness,
the rub of skin.

She recalls the wedding night,
the shyness *******,
she blushing,
he awkward all
fingers and thumbs,
she turning her back on him

to put on her night dress,
he looking away,
unwilling to view,
she in bed
covered to the neck,
he *******
bit by bit
avoiding her eyes,

she studying
the ceiling
the patch of grey,

he with night attire on
climbs into bed,
she feels him near,
his body nigh touching,
his hand out stretched.

In the dark,
she recalls,
they fumbled
and searched
and touched,
with grunts
and moans,
and woos
and ahs,
the night went on

until sleep
eased them
to a settled bliss,
ending with
that sticking kiss.

Helen put dandelions
she had picked
into the pocket
of her dress

present for my mum  
she said
she likes flowers
soon be her birthday

but I don't know
how old she is  
but flowers
is the best to get

don't you think?
Benedict nodded
he'd taken her
to the grass

in the park
where dandelions
grew in abundance
she'll like them

he said
I think so
Helen said
they came out

of Jail Park
and crossed Bath Terrace
and along
by the metal fence

until they came
to Rockingham Street
she talking
about the man

who stopped her
on the way to school
a few says before
and he said

he would take her
to the seaside
if she went with him
there and then

what did you say
to him?
Benedict asked
I didn't know

what to say
he looked so scary
should have gone
to find a copper

Benedict said
I was scared
she said
so what happened?

I just stared at him dumbly
like I was an imbecile
as Dad says to me
when I sit

at the dinner table
with my mouth open
then what?
Benedict said

he took my hand in his
and it was hot
and sweaty
and I screamed at him

and he ran off
she said
good for you
Benedict said

should have
kneed him one
I was too scared
to do anything

that's why
I screamed
they went under
the railway bridge

just as a steam train
went across the bridge
and pushed grey
and white smoke

over the side
and into the sky
and she said
where would he

have taken me
do you think?
God knows
Benedict said

but not to the seaside
but he didn't say where
he kept that
dark image

to himself
and let it stay there.

You think you can just
dump me, huh? Think
I am just going to let
you get away with that,

eh? Who do you think
you are? Well let me tell
you, mister, you ain't
nobody; you're just a

woman dumper,
a woman chaser, and
woman beater, who ain't
got no brain, just that

weedy thing between
your legs, that is all you
are. She puts down the
photograph on the white

mantelpiece, glares at it,
sticks her tongue out at it.
Besides you're losing
your hair, except up your

nose and in your ears, yes,
there you have plenty;
like sleeping with a ****
ape; you know that, huh?

She lights a cigarette and
puffs smoke at the photograph.
You know what your mother
said when I got in with you?

Huh? She said you're very
welcome to him; you can
have him; hope you can make
something of him, she said,

well I couldn't do it; I let her
down. She inhales deeply and
exhales over the frame. I hope
the dame you're with now,

gets to know what you are like
early; hope she ain't no push
over; hope she bangs you one;
hopes she gives you the pox.

She stares at the guy in the
frame; the celluloid image
black and white. I don't miss
you mister, she says, not in

the day, and certainly not in
bed or any time of  night.

Yehudit
sitting down
by the pond
watching ducks
on the dark
water's skin

sun above
coming through
tree branches

I am there
next to her
hot sensing
her nearness
her perfume
her warm hands
embracing
her two knees

I love it
us two here
the silence
no one else
no chatter
just nature

I head nod
agreeing

the last time
we had kissed
had embraced
only birds
witnessing
love making
in tall grass

my mother
is moody

Yehudit says
seems to know

about us?

seems likely

who had seen?

no idea
she replies

does she know
you are here?
I ask her

I sneaked out
while she bathed
Yehudit says

will she come
looking for you?

I doubt it

if she does?

We can hide
in the grass

I look back
behind us
only birds
and warm sun

Yehudit
kisses my cheek
forget her
let us love

we kiss lips
my young hands
embracing
her young hips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Auntie’s mutt followed you
around the army base
across parade grounds
and grass between trees

keeping out of the sun
you racing ahead
but the mutt keeping up
getting by you easily

its head looking at you
as if to say
you can't keep up
with me kid

but you tried
and then stopped
on the edge
where the army huts were

and stood staring at them
behind a little way
you could hear
some voice shouting

from a parade ground
and the sound
of marching feet
but there by the huts

it was quiet
except for bird song
and the hum
of distant traffic

Auntie had said
don't go
where I can't see you
but you had

and looking back
the place
where Auntie lived
was out of sight

must have run too far
you said
but the mutt just lay there
with its tongue

hanging out
panting
let's go look around
you said

so the mutt followed you
around the huts
and there were two
large gates

which were locked
and so you and the mutt
crawled underneath
and into the bigger

huts beyond
and you ventured forth
the mutt behind you
wagging its tail

and you looking
through windows spying
but seeing nothing
but desks and chairs

or iron bedsteads
in a long line
then you saw
an open window

and climbed the bricks
and peered in
and there was a whole bunch
of soldiers sitting

at desks
and this tall guy
with a moustache
bellowed out at you

and you leapt down
and made a run for it
towards the double gates
the mutt getting underneath

but you getting stuck
and the moustache soldier
and another pulled you out
and said

what you doing here kid?
you spying?
no mister just looking around
you said nervously

well where you from?
you told him
about your auntie
and how your uncle

was away fighting
some place called Korea
and you were keeping
your auntie safe

and he raised his eyebrows
and said
well keep out kid
go play elsewhere

and he opened up
the double gates
and let you out
and the mutt

was waiting for you
wagging its tail
its tongue hanging out
of its mouth

and you walked back
to Auntie’s place
hoping she'd not find out
and if she asked

where you'd been
you'd say
oh just over there
where the grass is green.

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

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

my nose
amongst those locks
and had done
quite often

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

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

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

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

and I in hers
and o
she said
did you hear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lift him high
to the sky

raise him
on your shoulders

rest his coffin
by your head

your brother's dead
carry me

he said
once in jest

raise him steady
off you go

hold firm
for tears will flow

his favoured song
Over the Rainbow

tones you in
we all follow

gutted empty
feeling hollow

full of sorrow
hand in hand

tearful eyes
hold him steady

sisters
brothers

keep him close
to heart and head

carry me
he once said

lay him gently
let his coffin lay

let him sleep
in God's rest

you have given all
you have done him proud

you have carried high
the best.

Sleep on
loving brother

dearest son
rest as you can

our close-knit kin
our young brave man.

You used to ride that bike
through these woods
Yehudit said
no tyres

no brakes
a ****** saddle
that almost
castrated you

Baruch laughed
yeah and I could get up
quite a speed
on that thing

and almost break
your neck
she said
they had just

made love
in the old shed
where he used
to store the old bike

he lay on his back
gazing at cobwebs
and leaves caught
in old spider webs

she lay on her side
staring at his profile
I loved that old bike
it was a death trap

she said
he smiled
yeah guess it was
she kissed

his naked thigh
what would your mother say
if she saw you
here now?

he asked
don't ask
she said
before kissing his hip

you know there's
probably mice in here
he said
she sat up

and looked around
where?
how the heck
do I know

he said
he turned and gazed
at her figure
in the half light

the semi light
caught one ***
caressed it
as if

an art piece
spiders too
he added
just to see

her reaction
she looked
on the floor
covered in dead leaves

and twigs
and his old coat
laid out there
I miss that old bike

he said
studying the touch
of light
on her head

seemingly
slicing her face
into two
one in shadow

one in light
what happened to it?
she asked
moving leaves

to satisfy herself
no mice or spiders
were there
Breathwaite kid took it

and it got broke up
Baruch said
she lay on her back
her head

on her folded coat
do people
still come here?
she asked

don’t know
he said
not seen anyone here
in a while

he kissed her cheek
in shadow
she moved towards him
moving her hand

along his thigh
she moved
into shadow
out of light of his eye.

What did that bit of skirt
want with you
this morning?
Ro asks

I look past him
outside the fence
at kids walking
onto the high school
playing field

just to talk

skirt's don't want
just to talk
they are always
after something
Ro says
want to tie you
down to something
or be their boyfriend
or something sad
like that

no just talk
and not much
of that
I say
she seemed nervous

with you
who wouldn't
and he laughs
anyway how about
a ball game?

Ok
I say

I look away from him
hoping to see
the Shoshana girl
but I don't see her

so I walk with Ro
on the field to play
and other boys
up ready to play

then I see her
sitting on the grass
with some other girl
and she waves
and I wave back

but don't go over
I'm playing ball
on the right wing

but gazing at her
was like hearing
an angel sing.

John felt hot
Elaine had
seemed at ease

being there
on the field
at high school

he tried not
to bore her
with his talk

of bird's eggs
or local
butterflies

that last kiss
suddenly
had shook her

upset her
just a kiss
no hidden

agenda
not wanting
anything

more than that
just the kiss
to express

deeper things
like bird song
and bright springs.

I wanted to meet you
outside the National
Gallery, Julie says, but
the doctors weren't keen,

said I ****** up my drug
medication, and not let
me out for days. She
was a drug dependent,

on the cure, or so she said.
And waiting you went
to Dobells's record shop,
listened to few jazz LPs,

had a beer, sat and smoked,
thought about ***, the having
and not so. Then she shows,
her dark hair neat, pony-tailed,

her tight figure in the clothes
she wears, **** almost touchable.
Let's skip the old stuff, she says,
let's keep to the modern ****,

save time, energy, then after
a drink and chat. So you go
in the Gallery, take in all those
moderns, the stuff she likes,

the portraits, the brush skills
involved, who painted whom,
buy a few postcards, look
at books. Then off for a coffee

and chat, you go to some place
in Leicester Square, sit at a table,
take out the cigarettes, wait
for the order, take in her features

as she speaks, her eyes, her lips,
the way her hair is brushed
and kept, her tight top, those
pressing out of ****. I liked

the Picasso, she says, his stuff
really gets to me, makes other
works boring as last year's *****.
You notice how she holds her

cigarette, the fingers not yet
browny yellow, hold it just so,
not tight or loose, but gently,
like it was some baby kid instead

of tobacco filled paper deadly drug.
The coffees come, neat small cups,
tiny handles, froth and such. I feel
the need, she says,all the time that

need to hit the veins or tongue. You
hear her words, out there, fragile things,
taking flight, like doomed black birds.

What's that
on your collar Sutcliffe?
O’Brien said

you got some
amorous sweet girl Eddie?
Danny D said

what is it?
I can't see
Eddie said

lipstick
I said
red stuff

where where?
he said
pulling at his white
shirt collar
with the red lipstick mark

he opened his shirt collar
and pulled it downward
how'd that get there?
he asked

your cousin still
staying with you
is she Eddie?
Danny said smiling

no not her
not that bucktooth *****
Eddie said
it must have been
my mum
she insists on
kissing me
before school

can't bring herself
to kiss your spotty skin
so kisses your collar
Danny said

she must have missed
Eddie said
how do I get it off?

who with?
O’Brien said
I ask that question myself
who's the lucky girl

what you talking about?
Sutcliffe said
how do I get
the lipstick off?

God knows
Danny said

soak it salt maybe
I said

but now
how now?
Eddie said

we walked on
toward school
Eddie rubbing
at his collar
with a greying handkerchief

that's the last time
she's going to kiss me
Eddie said

the red lipstick had smeared
more like a stain

it's worse now
I said
looks like a wound

thanks
he said thanks

you did it
not me
I said

what am I going to do?
can't go to school
like this

go home and change then
O’Brien said

I can't my mum's
gone to work
he looked at us
all tearfully

it's just lipstick Sutcliffe
no one's going to care
Danny said

of course they will
he said  
especially Thompson
you know what he's like
he'll have out front
for a right pasting
if he sees me

come back to my place
I said
my Mum'll put it
into soak
and you can wear
one of mine

you'll be late
Danny said

you go on
I said
we'll get a bus
we can make it
if we run

O’Brien looked at me
you're all heart Benny
all heart

so Eddie and I
ran back to my place
and he took off his shirt
which my mother
put in soak
and he wore
one of mine
and off we rushed
to school on the 78 bus  

Eddie all wide eyed
and I saw Fay
going to school
with her swaying hips
and blonde hair
and all I could do
was give
a keen eyed stare.

Lisa dresses for school,
buttons up the blouse
with fumbling fingers.
She stares down at her

bed where she and Mona
had lain the day before.
The same sheets, pillows
having no doubt her hair,

her smell. She puts on her
school tie, loops it through,
her fingers sensing the
smoothness of the cloth.

She remembers how they
had made love on that bed,
how they had lain naked and
hot and kissing. Best Sunday

ever, she muses, looking away,
stepping into her school skirt,
pulling it over her waist.
Her mother had called out

to her some minutes before.
Breakfast ready, not in the
mood for food. She looks out
the window at the farmyard

across the way, cows heading
out to the fields, her father
following, bellowing, a stick
in his hand, his arms raised

to move them on. She sits on
the bed and takes a pillow
and holds it to her nose
and sniffs. Mona’s scent,

borrowed from her mother,
she had said. She feels along
the sheet with her hand.
They had laid there, their

bodies, their lips kissing,
their hands holding. No one
had known they were
making love. Her parents

and family had thought them
drying after getting drench
in the Sunday downpour.
She closes her eyes, imagines

Mona is still there, thinks
she feels her hands around
her waist. Her mother’s voice
calls from downstairs. She sighs,

stands up and slips on her
socks and shoes. Leans down
and puts a kiss on her top
pillow where Mona had

laid her head, now she has only
images and memories instead.

Lisbeth stands watching
The artist as he prepares
To sketch. Her elder sisters
Stand in shadows whispering.
Her younger sister plays
With her doll on the floor.
Their father said to do as
The artist instructed and
Don’t misbehave or be rude.
The artist stares hard his
Dark eyes searching their
Every move and expression
And body gesture. The elder
Girls mutter in shadows
Their hands over their mouths
Their blue eyes like shallow
Pools. Ready? The artist
Asks putting charcoal to
Paper his fingers blackening.
Lisbeth says just as we are?
The artist nods. His grim
Features express do not disturb.
The youngest sister plays
Ignoring the artist her eyes set
On the game at hand. The girls
In shadow turn their profiles
Set to mystery their hands on
Their abdomens like guardians
Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as
She watches the artist’s stiff
Moustache and beard the slow
Movement of his mouth as he
Mouths words and stares hard.
The last artist employed some
Year before younger and less
Brutal in expression and manner
Had drawn them each in private
Rooms and set them down on couch
Or bed and kept their images inside
His head. He was dismissed and the
Drawings destroyed and nothing said.
Lisbeth had thought it just a game
Something done as lover might in
Private corners or lonely spots on
Quiet nights. The artist sketches.
His blackened fingers move and
Made their mark. Their images
Captured. The scene set. One sister
In the shadows yawns the other
Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth
Poses as young girls do. Nothing
To show of interest and nothing
Hid no secret self no other you.
That’s it the artist says we’ll begin
The painting another day maybe
Next week if all is well. The girls
In shadow look away and resume
Their secret games. Lisbeth studies
The artist’s blackened fingers as
He rolls the charcoal sketch and
Puts away. He gazes at her standing
By herself a glimpse of smile and
Glimmer in her eyes like small fires.
He closes the tired lids of eyes
And smoulders down his old desires.

Janice undid
the budgie’s cage
and put in
her slim finger

and the bird hopped on
and she pulled out
her finger with the bird
still there not moving

not flying through the air
see
she said
she will not go

you stood watching
with your back
to the door
hands on

the wooden panel
she spoke to the bird
it cocked its head
she muttered

nonsense sounds
the bird moved
its wings
but didn’t attempt

to fly
just stared her
in the eye
I often get her out

to feel freedom
Janice said
moving around the room
the bird balancing

itself as she moved  
what if the bird flew away?
you asked
it won’t

she said
but what if it did?
you said
Janice moved her head

to one side
in imitation
of the bird
her red beret

still in place
ah then
Gran would tan my hide
redder than my beret

she said
the bird walked
along her finger
but it won’t go

Janice said
and walked
to the open window
and held the bird there

the bird looked out
winking an eye
or so seeming
and looked away

but some time
you said
it might take flight
Janice walked

across the room
to the cage
and put the bird back
and closed the door

with a soft click
she smiled
maybe
she said

maybe
you moved away
from the door
and her gran came in

with sandwiches
on a large white plate
and put them
on the table

has Janice shown you
the budgie?
her gran asked
yes

you said
Janice looked at you
eyebrows raised
she didn’t open the cage

and get it out did she?
Janice looked away
no no
you said

she just pointed it out
and we spoke to her
o good
because she has

the terrible habit
of taking it out
when my backs turned
and one of these days

it will fly away
Gran moved back
to the kitchen
to fetch the other

tea things
Janice said
you lied for me
well I didn’t want

you to get into trouble
you said
Janice pulled a face
lies can land us

in Hell
she said
well it’s either Hell
or a good tanning

you said
she smiled
and sat at the table
and you sat beside her

hearing her gran
in the kitchen
with cups and saucers
and the kettle

whistling loud and clear
Janice’s hand
touched yours  
and she whispered

in your ear
( so gran
wouldn’t hear)
you are a dear.

Lizbeth holds the dress against her. It's new, her mother had bought it for her. The cloth is smooth and soft, but she doesn't like it. She looks at the dress in the mirror inside the wardrobe. She puts the dress down on the bed and takes off the dress she is wearing and lets it drop to the floor, kicks it out of the way. She picks the new dress off of the bed and put it on and pulls at the hem to pull it down fully. She twirls, looking at the dress and how it looks as she twirls. The colour's all wrong; the hang of it she loathes. It falls beneath her knees; too far below. She lifts the dress until it comes above her knees. She twirls again. If only Benedict was here, see muses, if only his eyes were here looking beside me. She lifts the dress higher and smiles. Mother would never approve of that length. She lets the dress drop to the given length. Boring. The material is old fashioned, she thinks, ******* it, pulling at the hem. The dress she pointed out to her mother while shopping in Midhurst was shorter and more colourful and didn't have silly bows at the back. Her mother didn't like it. It would make you look like a ****, her mother had said, like one of those tarts on that pop music show prancing around semi-dressed. She hadn't thought her mother had watched the 6.5 Special Show, but she had. She twirls again and looks in the mirror for any saving details of the dress, but there aren't any. The dress is drab and she will not wear it; she'll put it at the back of the wardrobe and forget it's there. She takes it off and lets it fall to the floor and stamps on it, then kicks it away. She sighs and gazes at herself in the mirror in underclothes and bra. Where is Benedict when you want him? She muses, putting her hands on her hips. Probably on the farm; working in the milk sheds weighing the milk or clearing out the cowsheds, as he did on weekends or after school. She had managed to get him to this room once while her parents were out, but it was to no avail and nothing happened. Her mother is downstairs preparing lunch; she can hear the pots and pans being used; a radio playing some classical stuff. She picks up her old dress and puts it back on. The new dress she hangs on a hanger and puts it at the back of her wardrobe and shuts the door. The old dress, black with red flowers, is becoming small and tight. It reaches just above her knees now and her mother said it was not decent to wear any more, but she wears it and loves it, even if it is tight and holds her firm. She walks the length of her room like a model, swaying her hips, hand held aloft, head tilted. She flops onto her bed and throws out her arms and looks at the ceiling. To think she had Benedict here on this bed that time and nothing happened; God how frustrating. There is plenty of time to think of boys, her mother had said, you're just thirteen, why when I was your age I was playing with dolls and skipping with a rope. Lizbeth hadn't played with her dolls for years; her skipping rope was at the bottom of the wardrobe unused. She sits up and looks at her room. The record player is on the floor by the window; an LP of the Everly Brothers in on the turntable; the sleeve is on the floor next to a cup and saucer, partially covered by soiled underclothes. She was a lazy girl, her mother said, too lazy for her own good. Her father(when he was home at all) said nothing much except how far he had travelled and how many orders he had managed to obtain. A girl at school( in a higher class) had given her a book with illustrations about *** with orders not to let other see it. She had gone through the book umpteen times(mostly gawking at the photos and illustrations) and trying to put into practice what she had read there. The book is at the bottom of the wardrobe in a brown paper bag tied with string( just in case her mother snooped around.) She wants *** with Benedict. She has tried to get him to perform many times, but he is reluctant, makes excuses. She doesn't want other boys. She wants one boy. Benedict. The book has an illustration what the boy has to do and the girl also. She has studied it so many times it is printed on her mind. There is also other illustrations about other things which she finds a bit distasteful. If her mother ever found the book, there would be hell to pay(providing her mother didn't drop with shock). She sighs. Closes her eyes. Embraces herself. Kisses her arms; pretends it is him, his lips kissing. She opens her eyes and stares; he is not there; he is missing.

Benedict looked over
the edge of the garden
looked down
at the sheer drop

Lizbeth looked over too
standing beside him
quite a drop
she said

are your two little sisters
safe when they stand here ?
she asked
we’re usually with them

or my mum
Benedict said
he looked
at the beautiful view

ahead of him
hills
fields
trees and bushes

birds in the sky
she looked sideways
on at him
his quiff of hair

the open neck shirt
the jeans
the rest of his family
were out picking blackberries

while he was here
alone with her
and all he talked of
was the garden

and the view
and how he helped up
at the farm
she looked back

at the cottage
thought of his room
the bed
the glass tank

of shells
and bones
and moss
the model Spitfire

hanging from the ceiling
she wouldn’t mind
the Spitfire
if she were laying there

looking up at it
while Benedict was on her
entering her
and the bed

was creaking
and she saying
(what the girl in class
said she did)

but no
instead she was standing
in his garden
on the edge

while he talked
of seeing
some butterfly
as if she cared

what he saw
except her
on his bed unclothed
sensing him

touching
feeling
gazing at the ceiling
can’t we go in?

she said
get to your bed?
have s.e.x.
before your mother

comes back?
Benedict thought he saw
a sparrow hawk
hovering in the bluey sky

beautiful in its skill
ready to dive and ****
I’m dying
to have *** with you

she said bluntly
tugging at his arm
not now
he said

he smelt the farm
over the way
sensed the cool
of county calm.

Lizbeth was waiting for me
by the hedge
under the water tower
been waiting for you

she said
been helping
sawing logs
I said

where we going?
she asked
walk up the Downs?
I said

she shrugged
her shoulders
I suppose so
she said moodily

where else?
I said
what about
that empty cottage

down the lane
she said
that would be
less far to go

and more likely
likely for what?
I said
you know

she said
might be a place
an empty shed or such
I looked at her hair

drawn into a pony tail
her eyes fixed on me    
we'll have to walk then
I said

you can leave your bike
by our shed
ok
she said

and so we walked back
to the cottage
and left her bike
by the shed wall

and walked down the lane
at a steady pace
don't you find
all this countryside

boring?
she said
no shops
no cinema

no place to go
it's ok
I said
I don't get bored

I go for walks
collect bird's eggs
look for animal skeletons
in the woods

fossils in the chalk walls
stop
she said
that's so dull

bad enough
you showed me
all that stuff
that time

in your bedroom
I smiled
you forgot to mention
my Spitfire hanging

from the ceiling
of course
she said
just what

I always wanted
to see
she looked
at the small stream

by the path
where you walked
in your bedroom
and all you

could think about
was showing me
your bones and fossils
and I wanted

to do things
she said
I found a wren's nest
up there

earlier this year
I said
pointing to an area
on her right

didn't disturb it though
waited until
the chicks had hatched
and flown away

before I collected
the eggshell remains
she didn't look impressed
she looked at the sky

where rooks flew
over head
my cousin collects
bird's eggs

she said
he gets them
as soon as he can
and blows out

the gunk inside
through a small hole
so yuk
she said

she took my hand
in hers as we turned
along the path
leading to

the empty cottage
stuck on the edge
of a field
come on

she said
let's have a look
for some place
we can do things

I followed her
through the front gate
and along a path
by weeds

and flowers mingled
roses red and yellow
by a wall
she tried

a shed door
but it was locked
she walked further along
to the back

of the cottage
and tried the back door
which was locked
she looked

in a window
this porch way
would give us cover
she said

looking around her
cover for what?
I said
for doing things

she said
not comfortable though
she added
looking at

the red brick
by the back door porch
I was hoping
there would be

some where
she said
she drew me into
the porch way

and put her arms
about me
and kissed me
her lips

were warm
and wettish
her tongue entered
into my mouth

like a small fish
a tractor sounded nearby
she broke away
and looked

by the porch
over towards
the field behind
a blue tractor

moved by
the edge
of the field
the noise loud

and smoke rising
in the air
that was it
her whole body froze

and her eyes
had a cold angry glare.

Lizbeth finds
dinnertimes
a right chore

sitting there
at the oak
table with

her moody
mother there
facing her

her father
glum as hell
beside her

and Lizbeth
trying hard
to ignore

both of them
its beef stew
thick gravy

and drowned out
vegetables
you're quiet

Mother says
anything
wrong with you?

nothing's wrong
Lizbeth says
gazing at

the beef stew
you've a mood
I can tell

Mother says
if the girl
wants silence

why complain
Father says
I know her

and you don't
Mother says
to Hubby

Lizbeth stares
at Mother
I'm just on

nothing else
Lizbeth moans
on the rag

Auntie's come
sandwich week
THAT'S ENOUGH

Mother shouts
rattling
the windows

I won't have
you talking
like that here

at mealtimes
it's not nice
Lizbeth stares

at Father
as he mouths
the beef stew

in silence
did you know
Lizbeth says

that Tudor
King Henry
the 7ths

mother was
married at
12 years old

and had him
at 13
Mother sighs

your point is?
that's my age
she sprouted

her king sprog
at my age
Mother glares

at her child
with her dark
angry eyes

Lizbeth thinks
of Benny
pretending

he's upstairs
in her room
stark naked

all waiting
eat your stew
Mother says

no more talk
of those things
outside it's

countryside
fluttering
butterflies

a bird sings.

The small hut
on the Downs
unused now

near the hedge
is not what
Lizbeth thought

it would be
is this it?
she mutters

Benedict
nods his head
this is it

there's no light
inside there
probably

got spiders
Lizbeth says
likely to

he replies
and woodlice
and beetles

and field mice
she stands back
mouth open

wide open eyes
she had thought
before this

she could get
Benedict
to have ***

with her here
a nice hut
she had thought

the blanket
an old one
she had brought

from her home
on the ground
cosy warmth

making love
Benedict
entering

into her
with birdsong
going on

the outside
having him
at long last

after months
of planning
and now this

this old hut
damp and dark
with spiders

and field mice
and beetles
and woodlice

making love
in that place
she muses

looking in
wouldn't be
one bit nice

Benedict
unaware
of her ploy

to have ***
in the hut
says mildly

with a smile
bet this place
hasn't seen

no action
in a while.

Lizbeth dreams
of Benny

having him
in her bed

just for kicks
her parents

down the stairs
in the lounge

unaware
she's upstairs

with Benny
having ***

in her bed
the first time

at long last
so she dreams

inside her
13 year

old young head
Benny dreams

of Spitfires
in dogfights

or finding
in hedgerows

a blackbird's
nest and eggs

all untouched
or holding

in his palms
a Peacock
butterfly

wings unspoilt
settled there

he dreams not
of Lizbeth

or of ***
anywhere

not in church
or her bed

and knows not
what's inside

his 13
year old head.

Lizbeth holds
Benedict’s
father's bike

while sitting
on her own
waiting for

Benedict
to return
from the hedge

with bird's eggs
or the shells
of blackbirds

he had seen
once nest there
she is bored

she wants more
and other
things than this

bird watching
or looking
out for those

butterflies
she wants ***
not nature

study *****
Benedict
where are you?

she calls out
just coming
he replies

if only
she muses
watching bees

on flowers
the soft buzz
butterflies

going by
fluttering
Benedict

she calls out
where are you?
here I am

he replies
coming out
of a hedge

clutching blue
black speckled
eggshell bits

in his palm
look at that
fine eggshells

he says soft
she looks strained
her eyes scan

the eggshells
in his hand
is that it?

just eggshells​?
lucky find
he replies

tucking them
in the black
saddlebag

on the bike
she watches
his fingers

how gently
they arrange
the eggshells

in the bag
can we go
to that hut

on the Downs
that you found?
she asks him

he buckles up
the black bag
I guess so

he replies
it's not big
just an old

shepherd's hut
unused now
is it far?

she asks him
ten minutes
walk away

he replies
we can't ride​?
she asks him

too hilly
he replies
her lips pout

and she sighs
only way
he tells her

ok then
she replies
so they ride

to the foot
of the Downs
leaving their

two bicycles
by a tree
and walk up

and along
the pathway
between trees

he thinking
of a nest
he'd seen there

the last time
Robin's nest
he believes

she thinking
of hot ***
in the shed

on the floor
on the old
bath towel she'd

brought from home
she and he
all alone

Benedict
unaware
walks and sniffs

the fresh air
thinking of
possible

robin's eggs
and of them
getting there.

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

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

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

she closed the door
and was gone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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