Makemkov had a sudden
Thought while sitting on his bed,
Having a smoke, gazing out
Of the window at the new

Apartments across the way,
Where some young dame was slipping
Into something light and cool,
Unknowing that he gazed like this

On other days, the thought he
Had disturbed the **** sight,
The image becoming blurred
Into another lustful

Smudge, he was going to be
Dead one day, the thought revealed,
Unclean or not so, he did
Not know, but die he would, he

Neither grand nor good, his death
Would come as all deaths came, each
With its owner’s borrowed name.

The large woman
Who each day took
Up two seats on

The bus, while she
Was listening
To her mp

3player and
Chewing boiled sweets,
And dreaming of

Meeting and then
Marrying her
Mr Right, and

Looking straight out
Ahead at Max,
Giving him the

Eye, smiling and
Revealing her
Decaying teeth,

Has died; and none
Will attend her
Funeral at

Half noon today,
Except the priest
And the thin dame

Upstairs in the
Large woman’s down
Town apartment,

Who had borrowed
Sugar many
Times, but never

Brought it back and
Maybe Mr
Right who lived just

Across the hall
With his mother
And who dreamed of

The large woman
And he making
Love together.

Miriam
begins her
*******

in a tent
at base camp
in down town

Malaga
2am
party done

boozing done
the music
for dancing

turned off now
and she says
she's not here

the fat dame's
not come back
to the tent

so what now?
Benny asks
shall I stay?

well I can't
have good ***
without you

she replies
are you sure?
Benny asks

sure I'm sure
she replies
enter in

and zip up
the **** tent
so Benny

zips it up
and begins
to unzip

and undress
watching her
shed her clothes

best he could
in half light
from moon's glow

and stars' shine
what if the
dame returns?

Benny asks
she can make
a *******

or *******
Miriam
says to him

naked now
her soft ****
hanging there

inviting
him to stare
he listens

to the wind
blowing hard
against blue

stretched canvas
come on then
come on in

Miriam
says to him
so he did

his **** ****
rising up
and then down

capturing
the moon's glow
not too fast

she utters
keep a pace
keep it slow.

Madrid
and after the street salesman
conned you

out of coins
in your change
Mamie said

well put it down
to experience
we all get caught

at one time or other
and they have
brought forth

great art
and you stared at her
at her hair and eyes

and said
yes I guess
but you were still peeved

about it but then
thought of the night before
when you and she

had slept all night
in the coach
through France

and into Spain
she with her head
on your shoulder

making little
snoring sounds
sometimes talking

in her sleep
other times
turning towards you

with her mouth
slightly ajar
and her hair

in a mess
and you had moved in
on her and kissed

her brow
like one planting
a soft kiss

on a corpse
and that made you laugh
and she said

what’s so funny?
and you said
taking hold

of her hand
crossing a street
just something

entered my head
what?
she said

about kissing a corpse
you replied
what corpse?

and that reminded you
of the time they brought
your father’s body home

for the night before
his funeral and as
he lay there

in the coffin
your gran had said
kiss him goodbye

and so you did
and that stayed with you
the feel

and chilled skin
and how it didn’t seem
to be him

just a shell
but you loved him still
for all that

and when you told her that
she said
how sweet

and you gazed at her
at her eyes
and hair

and kissable lips
as you walked
the Spanish street.

Mamie met you
in the base camp bar

in Malaga
her curly red hair

damp from a recent shower
and said

Picasso was born here  
In this bar?

you said
No

she moaned
In the city

in 1881
and she took the drink

you’d bought her
I like Picasso don’t you?

she asked
taking a sip

of the drink
and you noticed

the tight tee shirt
snugly holding

her firm *******
and her eyes bright

as sunlight’s breaking dawn
yes

you said
I like his later work

not the Blue
or Pink period or

that Cubist *****
and your eyes

slipped downwards
along her slender frame

the tight blue jeans
caressing her small

but plumpish ***
her fingers holding

the glass
and you thinking

of other things
far removed

from Picasso‘s art
though knowing he

would understand
where your mind

had wandered
and what the scene

your mind had set
like some dramatist

preparing for a play
she sipped more

of the drink
her head thrown back

the nice turn
of the neck

the chin
the nose

the ears protruding slight
between her red

and curly hair
and wondered deep

as you drank your own
if the other hair below

between her thighs
was as red and tight

as that above
and she said

breaking through
your thoughts

Was it lust or love
that moved his brush

Picasso I mean?
and oh you mused

taking on her words
and squeezing

the meaning
from each syllable

that was uttered
on her breath

to lay my head
upon her breast

not to sleep
but dreaming rest

and you turning to her
said High love or low lust

fed by his fond muse
moved his brush I trust.

Miss Pinkie
(she dropped the Mrs
when the divorce
came through)

liked to put on
Mahler’s 1st symphony
when he came around
and he brought

the bottle of scotch
and when she let him in
she said
ah Professor

you have brought
the *****
I shall slip into something
more comfortable later

and she closed the door
behind him
and followed him
up the passage

her flip-flops
flapping behind him
like some penguin
and already he could hear

the opening bars
of the Mahler
as he entered the lounge
and smelt her perfume

and she took the bottle
and he said
I’ve selected the poems
for my first book

and she said
from the kitchen
o good
you’ll have to let me

read them before you
send them off
sure
he replied

sitting on her sofa
remembering where
he’d made love last time
and how he almost

fell off the sofa
but clung onto
her ample flesh in time
and how she laughed

and said
man overboard
throw him a lifebuoy
and as she came

with two glasses of the *****
and set them down
on the table
she sat down next to him

and kissed his cheek
and said
thanks for the *****
and for coming

and hey loosen that collar
this is no funeral
and her fingers undid
his shirt collar

down half way
and she rubbed his chest
and hairs
isn’t that better?

sure
he said
and leaned forward
and sipped the *****

already Pete in the pants
was stirring
and she said
I like this Mahler piece

it does things to me
and he listened
to the trumpets
and violins and those cellos

and sipped again
and her eyes widened
and her lips
came down on him

and he lay back
on the sofa overwhelmed
and like a drowning man
opened wide his arms

and waved
but none came
to rescue
no lifeboats set out

no one in sight
just him and Miss Pinkie
and Mahler
and the long hot night.

Look at these
I show her
in my palm

three marbles
blue and green
and one red

Helen pokes
with finger
turns over

and over
then she stares
through thick lens

of glasses
at the shades
of colours

beautiful
she tells me
standing back

her enlarged
girly eyes
look at me

I then move
the marbles
from my palm

to pocket
of my jeans
can I hold

one of them?
she asks me
sure I say

and get one
and place it
in her palm

a small palm
delicate
like a pink

rose petal
the marble
seems a gem

to her eyes
she moves it
with finger

round and round
red and pink
becoming

almost one
in her palm
she smells it

she rubs it
beautiful
she utters

you keep it
I tell her
as a gift

she lifts her
teary eyes
upon me

you mean it?
she mutters
sure I say

she kisses
the marble
and puts it

in the small
dress pocket
and leaves it

to nest there
like an egg
then we walk

slowly up
Meadow Row
to get chips

from Neptune's
for lunch time
to eat on

the bomb site
and I wish
as we walk

I was that
red marble
resting there

in the green
dress pocket
lying there
all unseen.

The dance has exhausted,
the muscles pull
and become taut
and tense.

She remembers
Marcel’s taunt:
she could not dance
after such a night

of ***. She leans over,
ties tighter
her shoes, her
fingers fumbling,

her back aching,
limbs trembling.
She looks up,
sees the other

dancers in line,
pulling at dresses
and tights,
hair in place.

She rises, pulls
at her dress, tidies
her hair, stands
in line, trying

to focus, mind
on the now, not
last night, not on
the ***. ****,

maybe Marcel
was right.

You waited for Fay
by the entrance
of the outdoor
swimming pool

in Bedlam Park
the Saturday afternoon sun
still strong
the voices and screams

of the kids in the pool
coming through
the high hedge
that surrounded all

around except where
the entrance was
with its turnstiles
and changing rooms

and wire boxes
where kids
kept their clothes
Pete Badham and his cronies

had gone by and in
a few minutes before
giving you the hard stare
which you returned

with equal share  
you wondered if Fay’s father
had stopped her going
finding some passage

in the Bible that he claimed
made it a sin
or maybe she had been kept in
for some misdemeanour  

but then you saw her
coming through the park
in a blue dress
with a white towel

wrapped under an arm
thought you might not come
you said as she came  
to the entrance

Mum let me come
after Daddy’d gone
off to work
she said

she opened a hand
to show the coins
held there
her eyes you noticed

were red
as if she’d been crying
glad you’re here
you said

me too
she replied
and you both went in
each to the separate areas

for boys and girls
once you had changed
and put your clothes
in the wire box

you went out
to the pool
and dived in
the cool water

and waited for Fay
to come in
Dave Walker was there
at the deep end

keeping an eye
on Badham and his cronies
giving you the thumbs up
when Fay came out

she stood hesitant
on the edge
of the pool
dressed in her black

swimming costume
come on in
you called and waved
she climbed down

into the water
and swam towards you
her fair hair
darkened by the water

her legs flapping
behind her
as she swam
her hands pushing through

the water’s skin
as she came to you
she put her arms
around your neck

her damp face
close to yours
you put your arms
around her waist

and she winced
and you let go
what’s up?
you asked

nothing
she said
just a bruise
and she swam off

to the edge of the pool
and you followed her
and she pulled herself
onto the edge

and sat there
looking out
at the other kids swimming
you heaved yourself

onto the edge of the pool
beside her
she looked away
towards the high hedge

and you noticed
thin red marks
on her thigh
what’s that?

you asked
pointing to her thigh
sign I have sinned
she whispered

Daddy said
to show the flesh
is a sin
and wouldn’t let me come

and I answered him back
and he made the mark of
me having sinned
she stared at you

and touched your hand
say nothing to anyone
she said
promise?

ok
you said
let’s go swim
she said

and dived in again
you seeing
the red marks
and sensing the pain.

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

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

wait in there
she said
someone
will fetch you

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

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

whose plaster Christ
seemed battered
an aged
the plaster had lines

and cracks
on the legs
and arms
and the hands

were contorted
like a crab
on its back
with rusty nails

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she recalled asking
her grandmother
O no
her grandmother said

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

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

and remembered
her school friend Mary
who had pressed
chewing gum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baruch likes
Marvel's wife
he likes being

with her
likes her near
Marvel said

come over
come play chess
have a few drinks

a smoke or so
and so he has
and Marvel's wife is there

and she's got the drinks
and made up
some sandwiches

and sits nearby
watching the TV
and he sees her there

wearing the red dress
her dark hair
and when she walks

across the room
he catches sight
of her swaying ***

the tightness of the dress
where it holds
and he looks

half knowingly
so as not
to arouse Marvel's

suspicions
but little
does Marvel know

that Baruch has seen her
when he was out
on his job

little did he know
his wife has brought
Baruch in

got him a drink
and relaxed him
on the white sofa

shut the mutt
in the other room
and said

how do you like your drink?
and he said
cool

and so she got him
a cool drink
and swayed back to him  

leaning down towards him
easing down
her fine *******

towards him
and that time
when she was

all over him
kissing his neck
coming on strong

and the sofa
where Marvel's wife
sits now

has been a place
of serious love making
but Marvel thinks only

of the next chess move
his stubby fingers
moving his piece

thinking of checkmate
not seeing Baruch's eyes
on his wife

as she sits
on the white sofa
and Baruch takes in

her knees
the legs crossing over
Marvel smoking

his cigarette
smiling as he moves
his bishop

his eyes on the board
and his wife sitting there
behind his back

on the sofa
lying back
pointing to Baruch

her lonely cleavage
and he smiling
one eye

on the board
and on his queen
and the other eye

seeking an opening
in her dress
some visual

to take home
some dream piece
to take to bed

and turn around
and around
inside his head.

The old priest sat
in the dark of the
confessional. A girl
had entered on the
other side and knelt.

A rustle of clothing,
breathing, a cough.
He was prepared for
the list of sins, the
the soft voice verbal

sprouting, the usual
schoolgirl misdemeanours.
Yes my child? He said.
Mary on the other
side stared at the grille,

tried to make out which
was the priest. Bless me
Father she began, then
the list ran. The priest
placed his hands over

his ears. The list was long,
indelicate, touching on
the obscene. He fumbled
with his beads, tried to
make out the voice,

the owner, which girl?
He thought, peering into
the grille, his eyes searching
through the semi dark.
Mary pushed her knees

together; she sensed the
need to ***. She knelt holding
herself in, pushed her hands
between thighs. How long
was the old codger going to be?

She mused. The priest coughed.
Sniffed, tried to discover the
scent. He said the usual words,
about trying to avoid the occasion
of sin, have faith, and so forth

uttered in a strained voice.
He peered hard. The outlined
figure fidgeted, moved from side
to side. Never in his born days
had he.  He uttered the absolution,

made a sign of the cross. Then
she was gone. The light there
then not there. A smell of sin?
What was it? No, not *****?

Father Joseph sat in the dark confessional in stunned silence. Either the young girl had told him a pack of lies or she was a budding Lucrezia Borgia. He fiddled with his thumbs; threw the sins she’d confessed around in his head like a juggler, wondering where the extra ***** had come from. It was that Moran girl he was sure. The things she’d said. The times and manners, he mused. On the other side of the confessional, Mary Moran knelt with her eyes closed. She searched through her mind for any sins she may have forgotten to relate like one sorting through a laundry basket for soiled garments for the wash. No, she could remember nothing else. That was it. At least as far as she could recall. She fidgeted on her knees. Scratched her thigh. Breathed heavy against the metal grille. She smelt the scent of polish and after-shave; the odd smell of mothballs that her Da’s suits had when he brought them out for funerals or weddings. She opened her eyes and stared at the semi-dark. Had the priest fallen asleep? she mused, moving from knee to knee, wondering if he’d be long, she was dying for a ***; wanting to get out in the air and light again. She heard the rustle of cloth and sighs, a slight cough, a deeper breath. The priest spoke softly and said things that floated around Mary’s head like smoke; disappeared into the dark corners of the confessional without penetrating her ears or mind. If she were a daughter of his, he mused, in between words of absolution, gazing at the outline of the girl through the grille, letting the familiar words leave his lips, hoping the Crucified was listening and that he’d not be a father to a child like that for all the holy water in Rome. Mary squeezed her knees together; bit her lower lip in desperation. If the father didn’t get a move on there’d be a puddle on the floor; she’d not be the one to clear it up, so she wouldn’t. Did I tell about the truancy? she mused, squeezing the knees tighter, thinking of abandoning the confessional for a quick run; risk purgatory or worse, she couldn’t give a fresh fig. Father Joseph paused; sniffed the air; fiddled with his thumbs again. Was she still there? he wondered, listening to the silence, peering through the grille, making out the outline of the girl’s head. Mary waited for the penance. It reminded her of waiting for her Da to home after her mother threatened to tell him all she’d done; the wait; the tanned backside; the dark room. The priest spoke. His words cutting the air like Sister Thomas’s ruler in mathematics, when she waved it madly above her head if the girls were talking in class. The first chapter of St John’s Gospel. No Aves or Pater Nosters. She sighed. Bit her lip. Rose to her feet, ****** her hand between her thighs. Muttered a Thank You. Pushed opened the door into the church and, after a smile at Magdalene in the pews, walked at a fast pace down the side aisle to the lavatory outside in the passageway beside the statue of St Joseph which lingered by door. Father Joseph stared into the darkness; listened to the silence. The girl had gone. Her scent lingered. Her words hung in his head like harpies. He breathed in deeply. Thanked God for celibacy. Awaited the next girl. Hoped she was a minor saint in the making and not another Lucrezia Borgia and a mouthful of sins. Mary sat in the cubicle and stared at the graffiti on the door of the toilet. References to the priest and Sister Luke were scrawled in red ink; some remarks about Brian Brady, which she hoped, were not true, at least she didn’t recall as true. The smell of after-shave and incense lingered in her nose; the first chapter of St John’s Gospel loomed large; and the sense of relief flowed through her as she smiled at the memory of the priest’s silence after the words about Brady’s hands and intentions in the woods a few days back. That was worth any amount of chapters from gospels or a mouthful of Aves from noon until night, she mused. She smiled; recited a whispered Ave; closed her eyes to the days’ light and the noise from the playground outside the window.

Matilda listens to make sure they’ve gone out knowing Mr Doozie the cat is licking his milk the slurping sound fills the now silent room but she has to be sure her aunt and uncle have gone she can’t allow Moses to come in by the backdoor until they’re long gone and in the town buying and selling their wares she places her hands on her head and closes her eyes to focus her listening to close out Mr Doozie’s sounds the saucer of milk being pushed across the floor the purring but she cannot hear them now cannot hear their voices can’t hear Auntie’s whines and Uncle’s bellows can’t smell Uncle’s pipe or the aroma of his farts or Auntie’s sour body odour and sniffs the air and puts one leg up on the chair and lets the skirt fall back revealing her fine thigh and underwear something for Moses to see and get excited about not that he needs any encouragement  especially after the last time he came around when her aunt and uncle had gone off for the day to market on the old bus and Moses had sneaked in the back door his eyes peering around the door and she saying They’ve gone out you can come in and he did and while Mr Doozie sat on the end of the bed watching disinterestedly Moses had kissed her all over her body and after games of foreplay he’d entered her with subtleness and moved in a slow motion so that the bed only moved and rattled slightly and did not disturbed Mr Doozie and they had only just dressed and was letting Moses out the back door when Auntie came in the front door followed by Uncle with his arms laden with shopping and moaning about the prices and the shop girls and how there is no manners anymore and she feeling Moses’ ***** easing down her thigh and stood there with her innocent stare but this time Moses would need to be quicker as they had only gone to town and wouldn’t be long and if they returned earlier and caught her and Moses undressed and ******* with Mr Doozie sitting watching she doesn’t know what they’d say or do although knowing Uncle he’d chase off Moses with his walking stick and tan her hide until she cried and cried but Moses hasn’t come and she listens out hushing Mr Doozie with a shush shush and scratches her thigh and strains her ears was that him? She sighs opening her eyes sitting up looking towards the door waiting anticipating feeling the body’s urge the body’s need wanting Moses to come through the door and hurry with her up the stairs followed no doubt by Mr Doozie and quickly ******* and into her bed and setting aside the kissing and messing get on with the ******* but the door remains closed the room is almost silent apart from Mr Doozie’s licking and purring and the soft tick tocking of the grandfather clock and her heart thumping boom boom boom boom like a small drum all around the room and inside her head and she disappointed frustrated with no *** with Moses just a small empty bed.

The bell from the cloister rang. Echoed around and settled upon nun in bed cosy in blanket against morning’s cold and frost. Stirred. Head raised. Eyes peered into the dawn’s light, sighed, shivered, moved arms against body’s length. Closed eyes. Wished for more sleep. None to have. Bell rang. Time, ladies, please. Time and tide. Stirred again. Lifted head. Sighed. Gazed at bedside table. Clock tick tock, tick tock. Moved to edge of the bed. Feet dangled. Toes wiggled. Hands joined for prayer. Breath stilled. Silence of the room. Bell stopped. Sighed. Breathed air, cold air. Wake up, rise, and shine. Funny words. Tired still. Wished to sleep, but no time. Dangled feet rose and fell. Toes wriggled. Rose from bed and knelt on wooden floor. Hard floor. Cold floor. Polished to a shine floor. Knees slid on smooth surface. Back stiff from straw-stuffed bedding. Sighed. Sister Teresa joined hands. Let fingers touch. Let flesh touch flesh. Sin on sin once maybe. Long ago. Sighed. Opened eyes. Gazed at crucifix on wall above bed. Old Christ, battered by time and grime. Eyes closed image held in mind’s eye. Prayer began. Words searched for amongst the wordless zones. Reaching through darkness for an inch of light. Light upon light. Darkness upon darkness. Who felt this she does not know. None speak except Sister John. Word upon word built. Holy upon holy. Sit here, she’d say. Rest a while. Rest in cloister. Rest on bench by cloister wall. You and she. Her hands old and wrinkled by time and age. Her eyes glassy. Her voice thin and worn, yet warm. Want to be close to warm. Especially in dark cold mornings like this, Teresa mused, lifting head and opening eyes to dawn’s light and cold’s chill in bone and skin. She stood and dressed. Disrobed from nightgown and into habit. Black as death with white wimple of innocence. Laughed softly. Such times. Such times. Harsh serge against soft flesh. Stiff whiteness on skin’s paleness. Sighed. Coughed. Made sign of cross from head to breast to breast. Never to touch, mama said, never let be touched. Words, long ago. Mama is dead. Rest in peace. No mirror. No image of seventeen-year old face or features now. Vanity of vanities. Sighed. Papa said, some men would deceive. Deceived by what? She often asked but none would tell. Ding **** bell. Silence now. Go now. Moved to door and down the cloister to the church and the dawn’s welcome cold and still. Teresa closed door and walked at pace soft and motionless seeming. None shall speak. Sing and chant and raise eyes and maybe a smile briefly, but none shall speak. Nor touch. For none may touch. Not as much as a sleeve felt or breath sensed. Each one an island. Water upon water none shall cross. Teresa sighed. Walked down the steps one by one, not to rush but not to lag sloth-like, lazily or drag wearily. Mother Abbess would know.Knows all. Sensed all. Next to God most feared. Most loved maybe if truth were known. Teresa sighed. Chill of cloister ate at bones and flesh. Nimble walking might ease, but walk as nuns do and cold bites like violent fish. Breathed in the air. The moon still out. Stuck out on a corner bright and white. The sun’s colour fed the dawn’s light. Brightness promised. Warmer weather. Warmer than Sister John. Who knows, Teresa mused, touching the cloister wall for sense of touch. Absence of touch can mean so much, Jude said, years before. Jude’s image faded now. No longer haunting as before. Teresa brushed her finger on the cloister wall. Rough and smooth. Rough and smooth. Men may deceive, papa said. Let none touch, mama advised. Long ago or seeming so. Seventeen-years old and innocent as innocence allowed. Jude laughed, feeling such. Wanting to touch. Over much. Entered church. Cool air. Sense of aloneness. Choir stalls. Smell of incense and polish mixed. Sense upon sense. Smell upon smell. Walked slowly. Genuflected to Christ. High on high. All seeing. Like Mother abbess. But less human. Less human all too human. The Crucified for all to see. Half naked there. Stretched wide arms. Head dangling lifeless or so seeming. Genuflection over moved to place in choir stall, stood, and stared at vacant wall. Brick upon brick. Sounds held. Chants upon chants sang once, held here. Chill in bone and flesh. Breviary held. Pages turned. Find the place and mark it well. Bell pulled sounds now. Nuns enter and gather round. Sister upon sister, elbow near elbow, but none may touch. None touch. None touch.Sister Rose eyes dim searched yours for morning joy. Smiled. Coughed. Awaited tap from Abbess. Smiled. Nodded. Hands held beneath black serge. Wanting to hold something, someone, but none may do so. None may touch. Tap, tap, wood on wood. Chant came as if from the cold air settled on ears. Felt in breast. Sensed and blessed, but none may touch. The sense to sing. The voice raised. The ear tuned. The mouth and lips employed, but none may touch. At least, said Sister Rose, not over much. Not over much. Still air. Cold air. Warmth wanted. Sister John or Sister Rose. None shall touch.

That’s Speedwell
and that’s Red Sorrel

Jane said
pointing out

the wildflowers
as you both walked

down the lane
that led to the empty cottage

with apples trees
in the garden

and gooseberry bushes
in fruit by hedges

They all look the same to me
you said

Just flowers growing
she shook her head

and smiled and said
You townies

do you know nothing
of nature’s beauty?

I’m looking at beauty now
you replied

and as you both walked on
down the lane

she in her summery dress
and you in your

open neck shirt
and faded jeans

you felt the morning sun
touching your head

like a fond mother
and the smell of flowers

and sound of birds
and she said

after a minute
or so of silence

Father says beauty
is only skin deep

real beauty lies
in a person’s soul

if that soul is not blemished
by sin that is

and you looked at her
hand by her side

swinging as she walked
and the fingers curled

as if she held
something invisible

yet ready to throw
and you took in

her white ankle socks
above her brown sandals

and the calves of her legs
and her thighs

just showing
as the dress moved

and you breathed in deep
like one immersed

in water about to drown
of love or the feeling of such

and you said
I guess he’s right

but I love the beauty
of skin pretty much

and she laughed
and her laughter

shooed off birds
from the tree tops around

who probably never heard
such a beautiful sound.

Sister Scholastica left the refectory after lunch; made her way to the grounds for the twice-daily recreation period. She had been one of the twelve nuns to be chosen to have their feet washed by the abbess later that day. Some were too old, some too young, she imagined, looking for a quiet spot to wander; take in the scenery; meditate on her day and the following days to come of Easter. A chaffinch flew near by; a blackbird alighted on the ground and then flew off again. She paused. Maundy Thursday. Her sister Margaret had died on a Thursday. She remembered the day her sister was found in her cot by her mother; heard the screams; the rushing of both about her; her father’s harsh words; both shouting; her being pushed aside; wondering what had happened; no one saying until the small coffin was taken out of the house for the funeral and off to the church which she was not allowed to attend. Mother was never the same afterwards. The days of lucidity grew less and less; madness crept over her like a dark spider spinning its web tightly. She sighed. Walked on through the grounds passed the stature of Our Lady green with moss and neglect. The sun warmed. Say your prayers, mother had said, always say your prayers. Mother’s dark eyes lined with bags through lack of sleep, peered at her especially when the madness held her like a bewitched lover. Poor Margaret, poor sister, only said baby sounds, off into the night. One of the nuns passed her with a gentle nod and a smile. Sister Mary. She saw her once holding the hand of another sister, late evening after Compline, along the cloister in the shadows. Father fumed at the creeping madness; Mother’s spewing words; the language foul. She stopped; looked at the apple orchard. Le repas saint: le corps et le sang de Christ, Sister Catherine said to her that morning after mass, the holy meal, the body and blood of Christ, Sister Scholastica translated in her mind as she paused by the old summerhouse. Francis, who once claimed to have loved her, wanted only to copulate; left her for some other a year later. A bell rang from the church. Sighed, Time not hers. She fingered her rosary, a thousand prayers on each bead, each bead through her finger and thumb. Her father beat her when her mother’s rosary broke in her hands; the room was cold and dark. Pray often, Mother said, in moments of lucidity. Time to return. The voice of God in the bells. She turned; walked back towards the convent, her rosary swinging gently in her hand, her eyes taking in the church tower high above the trees; a soft cool breeze kissing her cheek like Francis did once, long long ago before Christ called and made her a bride; clothed her in black as if in mourning for the sinful world she’d left behind.

Grief tests ones faith,
Mrs Mullins said.

Her son was dead;
killed in the war.

Makes you wonder
how a loving God

can take away
the one you love

and what the reason is
and what for.

Maybe,
her six year old

daughter said,
He loves him more.

Mr Finn
was talking
history

Saxon stuff
battlements
and castles

listening
I recalled
the toy fort

that I got
for my 6th
birthday gift

with coloured
lead soldiers
some with swords

some with bows
and arrows
and after

the school day
on the way
home I asked

Janice if
she'd like to
see my fort

you've a fort?
a real fort?
she asked me

as we walked
together
along St

George's Road
it's a toy
fort I got

for my 6th
birthday gift
has it got

a drawbridge?
sure it has
and towers?

5 if you
count the one
over the

drawbridge I
informed her
I'd love to

see your fort
she said so
I took her

to the flat
where I lived
and showed her

the toy fort
and soldiers
and we sat

on the floor
and my mum
brought us drinks

of Tizer
and biscuits
and Janice

said to me
maybe you'd
like to see

my dollies
at my place
Gran likes you

then we can
have a tea
party with

my dollies
I liked her
but going

to a doll's
tea party
how could a

young boy live
that one down
if the boys

on the block
found that out
so I said

maybe one
day I might
when there's not

a moon out
in the night.

An enormous
tragedy of grief  

sits on
the old man's

bent shoulders
his young son's

sudden demise
is always before

his weary eyes
it rises up

before him
with the dreary dawn

greets him
in the ticking

slow hours
of the dull day

(grief is like that
they say)

then sits with him
until the night owl

hoots him
to uneasy sleep

(his son's soul
to keep)

each time
he sits

to write
his worn words

his son watches
over

his bent shoulder
(or so he wishes

or hopes)
seeing his father's

fingers press
the keys

to conjure words
to soothe

the hurt
(they fail

but help
in one

untidy mess)
and maybe

his son's
ghostly hand

will touch
the shoulder's

ache of grief
(bringing in

the old man's
aged belief)

and maybe more
his whispered words

(with hint
of Mutley laugh

for sure)
to cheer or lift

his father's lowly
spirit high

saying although
the body's dead

the spirit's here
it does not die

and although
an enormous tragedy

of grief sits
on the old mans'

bent shoulders
it seems to sit

less heavy now
(although

deep hurting still)
somehow.

That was the next thing
she hated: the bleed,
the mess, the inconvenience.

And that also told her that,
for this month at least,
she’d ****** up and would
not be a mother. And having
got that good looking guy
that night, and she being at,
what she thought, was the
right moment. Time was slowly
running out. Tick tock of her
body clock. All that *** over
all those years (often making
it impossible to conceive) she
had decided at last that she
wanted a baby, wanted a small
part of herself to live on in another,
she wanted to be a mother.

Looking back she saw those
long passages of time where
all she wanted was a good lay,
a good looking guy who could
perform the act and bring her
to the moment of explosion
without all the I love you kind
of stuff or emotion. Now she
had aged, the body not quite
as it was, the lines beginning to
show, the bones less supple, and
the energy on a different level.

And as that young punk had said
after the office party lay, not bad,
we sure got to one another, but
you’re old enough, lady, to be
my mother. That had brought it
home to her, the time going,
The body beginning to fall apart.

Little less chance now to get a guy
or break his heart. Still there was
the monthly bleed. That meant
something surely, in her hope to
her new found end. Not this month
though; that was it, another wasted
****. Those young girls, she thought,
watching them pass, have no idea
how little time they have, I wish them
well, I wish them love, I wish them luck.

Lydia walked back
from the baker's shop
through the Square
carrying in her thin hands

the loaf of white bread
and half a dozen bread rolls
the 1/- change
from her mother's money

in her green dress pocket
her arms feeling
the chill of the morning air
the greying sky

the pigeons in flight
and she sensing
her stomach rumble
and her big sister

had just crept home
after a night out
(doing what
Lydia didn't know)

and her mother calling her
a *****( whatever that was)
and her father sleeping off
his beer

his snores vibrated
around the flat
and as she approached
her front door

Benedict came over
his cowboy hat
pushed back
his 6 shooter gun

tucked into the belt
of his blue jeans
been to the shop?
he asked

she stopped and nodded
early bird
catching the worm?
he added

bread not worm
she said smiling
she liked it
when he spoke to her

made her feel
kind of wanted
as if she were
of some worth

she liked it
when his hazel eyes
lit up
at the sight of her

how's your mother?
he asked
ok
she said

Benedict stood
and studied her
taking in
her plain green dress

the grey ankle socks
the black plimsolls
her skinny arms
and frame

are you allowed out later?
he asked
should think so
she said

where are you going?
she asked
thought we could catch a bus
to the West End

she frowned
where's that?
he smiled
up West

he said
you know Piccadilly
and Leicester Square
and such

she clutched
the bag of rolls
and the loaf of bread
tightly to her chest

isn't that far away?
a mere bus ride
he said
she looked doubtful

haven't money
she said
no problem
he said

I've enough for both of us
she looked
at her front door
best go in

or Mum'll wonder
where I've got to
he nodded
she moved towards the door

then stopped
and turned to him
see what they say
she said

Ok he said
look forward
to seeing you
she looked at him

that look
in his hazel eyes
that smile lingering
on his lips

like some show girl
waiting to come
on stage and perform
can I have a drink of cola

when we're out?
she asked
sure
he said

maybe ice cream too
they do that
soft oozy kind
up West

he said
her eyes lit up
and she smiled
Ok

she said
and just as she entered
the front door
he blew her

a young boy kiss
from his palm
and then turned
and rode off

across the Square
on his invisible horse
the coal black one
without saddle of course.

Yiska sits in the classroom
listening to the teacher's yak
or not as the case maybe.
Something about Pilgrim

Fathers and a Mayflower,
she stares out the wide
window; feels the numbness
of *** where's sat so long.

Some kids are out on
the playing field. Cricket
or such like. Wonder if
he's there? Hard to see

from here. The girl next
to her elbows her elbow.
The teacher is talking
to her. She focuses her ears.

Others stare at her. She stares
at the teachers eyes, watches
his lips move, strains to hear
his words. Have you been

listening? He asks. She nods.
He wonders; pulls a face;
looks at the blackboard,
writes down more. She

picks up her pen; scribbles
down; watches his hand
move chalk across the board.
Benedict's hand moved  

elsewhere during break;
his lips on hers; she can
still feel where his lips
wet her neck; feels with

her fingers. Scribbles
the words, black ink like
flying birds. She rests her

cheek on the palm of her
left hand; scribbles copy
of the teacher's words;
senses the place where

Benedict touched. O to be
touched, touching, touch,
the teacher stops and looks
around; his eyes scanning

the room; he settles on her
beady-eyed. Have you got
all that? He asks. Yes of course,
she lies, dreaming of Benedict,
she opening, in her mind, his flies.

At the fountain
by Nelson’s Column
you met Julie
in mini skirt

and bright
red top
her hair hugged
into a ponytail

a copy of Sgt Pepper’s
under her arm
you in jeans
and open necked shirt

came across to her
standing there
looking into the fountain’s water
sorry I’m late

you said
missed my train
no problem
she said

bought my own Beatles' LP
and she held it out to you
friends say it's neat
and way out

she added
as you scanned
the sleeve
where we going?

you asked
drink I must have a drink
she said
how’s things

at the hospital?
usual stuff: treatment
drugs to get me
off drugs

therapy
psychiatrists
nurses
and so on

you?
she asked
I’m ok
you said

ok is crap
ok is boring
is mediocre
life either *****

or it’s exciting
and over the top
she said
the Square was crowded

people
and pigeons
and water
and sun

and sky
and mixture
of perfumes
and bus fumes

let’s get that drink
she said
and so you went off
to a bar off

Trafalgar Square
and ordered two drinks
and sat outside
in the sunshine

I think the fat nurse
on my ward suspects us
she said
suspects what?

you asked
you and me
and that small room
o that

you said
she took out
a cigarette pack
and took out

two cigarettes
and gave one
to you and lit
them both

think she’s jealous
or envious
Julie said smiling
free love

makes some women angry
Schopenhauer said
somewhere
that wives and ******

despise women
who give ***
away free
it undermines
their contracts

how’s Jamie?
you asked
still locked up
she said

they claim
he was supplying
but he wasn’t
they ******* him up

she inhaled
and searched
your eyes
you still playing

your saxophone?
yes
you said
I practice everyday

annoys
the neighbours
sometimes
but got to

keep up with it
and hone the skills
she sat legs crossed
her thighs exposed

her footwear bright
her fingers holding
the cigarette
the lips red

her eyes
like small mirrors
small **** pressed
against the red top

the memory
of that small room
off the ward
she and you

and brooms
and boxes
and such
and kisses

and ***
and on edge
for the door to open
but not overmuch.

As I came
from the Embankment
underground station
towards Charing Cross

I saw Julie standing
looking in
a shop window
she looked thin

in the jeans
and yellow tee-shirt
her hair was drawn back
in a ponytail

she saw me
and walked towards me
thought I’d meet you here
she said

got bored waiting
in Trafalgar Square
ok
I said

good that you're here
we kissed and walked
hand in hand
up to Charing Cross

how are you?
I asked
******
she said

the doctors
have been on my case
all week
and the nurses

have been
breathing down my neck
into everything I do
can't even go

to the bog
without them
standing outside the door
in case I’m shooting up

and are you?
I asked
course not
where am I

going to get anything
to shoot up?  
we came to the road
and crossed

at the lights
and into Charing Cross Road
I missed you
she said

missed you too
I said
wish I had
a photo of you

to put by my bed
can't get one
she said
the parents won't bring

a thing from home
unless you have a camera?
no I don't
have a camera

I said
shame
she said
I’m going

to a jazz concert
next week
I said
jazz? yuk

she said
I’d rather
have an enema
who are you seeing?

Charles Lloyd
jazz sax guy
but I can see you
in the day time

it's in the evening
she looked at me
we could try book
into that crazy hotel again

for a few hours
she said
get that same room
and bed

today?
I asked
no next week
she said

OK
I said
I’ll ring through tonight
she smiled

give me something
to look forward to
all week
get me through

the nonsense
with the docs and nurses
we went into
Leicester Square

and into a café
for two coffees
and a slice
of chocolate cake each

and I studied
her face
and small *******
just out of reach.

Miss Pinkie
and her son
at a bar

and I was
near to them
sitting down

in a chair
and he said
things to her

as he looked
back at me
she told me

he was in
the police force
and married

and said things
back to him
looking back

towards me
and smiling
I think he's

probably
saying to her
he's too young

young enough
to be your
oldest son

and he's right
I am young
enough to

be her son
but what he
doesn't know

or maybe
doesn't want
to know is

I've shafted
his mother
to the music

of Mahler
both of us
well sauced on

Scotch whiskey
sometimes on
her blue couch

other times
on her bed
with moonlight

coming through
her bedroom
wide window

and moon glow
playing on
my naked

rising ***
Miss Pinkie
and her son

return with
all our drinks
and sit down

I watch him
wondering
what he thinks.

School over
Judith began work
in town
in some grocery store

filling shelves
talking to customers
sitting on the checkout
and you went

saw her there once
busy
clothed
in the company’s

uniform
she was filling up holes
on the shelves
what are you doing here?

she said
you said you had a day off
from the petrol station
where you worked

out of town
that you wanted
to see her
how about tonight?

you asked
I can’t tonight
I’m working late
and I’m so tired

when I get home
what about tomorrow?
she said
I can’t

you said
I work until 8
she continued
filling the shelves

you looked about the store
taking in
the closed in feel
like being trapped

she looked about her
can’t talk for long
in case the manager
comes and bawls me out

she said
like being at school
you said
worse

she said
you looked at her
standing there
the uniform

the captivity of being
her eyes being fed
labels and prices
and contents of packets

her hands busy
the fingers moving
her cheeks flushed
her lips slightly pursed

as if wanting to kiss
but dare not
remember the first kiss we had?
you asked

yes
she said
pausing her work
gazing at you

Christmas while singing carols
with the choir
out in the evening air
no one looking

not seeming to care
she said
you just 14
me a still 13

going on 14
yes it had been like that
you recalled
and from the first time

you saw her
her eyes leapt out
at you and your heart
thumped inside

your chest
like some mad thing
wanting to get out
but that was then

you thought
watching her work
the school days over
the free time less

she in town working
all hours
you out of town
working the gas station

(you liked
the Americanization
of the term) till late
she busy

looking over her shoulder
time running out
love leaking away
she worried about

the manager seeing
you wanting to stay
but then
some store supervisor came

and moved on
to some other chore
and she waved
and you waved back

things weren’t
the same
the love not
as it was before.

He met Lydia
in Harper Road
near the newspaper shop
the one that had

the Rob Roy book
in the window
which he was planning to buy
with his pocket money

she looked unhappy
carrying a shopping bag
in her thin hand
where you off to?

Benedict asked
got to go home
with this
she said

lifting the bag
where you going?
she asked
seeing him carrying

his toy rifle
and wearing
his cowboy hat
going to fight

at the O.K. Corral
only it won't be
ok when I get there
he said smiling

O.K. Corral?
she said
where's that?
he pointed to a bomb site

across the road
near the doctor's surgery
oh
she said

who else is there?
a couple of other kids
he said
why don't you come along?

can't
got to take
this shopping home
and besides Mum's

in a state
what with my big sister
not coming home
until the early hours

and my dad having a row
and punch up
in the Square last night
with that man

on the 2nd balcony
can't remember his name
and Mum and him
having a row

and me trying to sleep
and Hemmy
my brother
putting an earwig

in my bed
making me scream
and Mum bellowing at me
for screaming

she stopped
and wiped her eyes
on the hem of her dress
Benedict put his arm

around her thin shoulders
I'll get your brother
for that the ***
he said

she said nothing
but sniffed
he took
the shopping bag

from her hand
and said
I'll walk you home
and after

we can come back
and have a penny drink
and lolly
in the Penny shop

what about the O.K.Corral fight?
she said
o that can wait
he said

they'll fight
amongst themselves
anyway
she nodded

and they walked back
and crossed
Rockingham Street
and into the Square

and he said
what does your sister do
until the early hours?
God knows

Lydia said
Mum says she's a *******
or something
I don't know

if it's a special
sort of job
or something
but it makes Mum annoyed

and Dad said
to leave her alone
as she's doing her bit
to keep ***** men occupied  

Benedict shrugged his shoulders
and hugged Lydia closer
so how about
that penny drink and lolly?

she nodded and sniffed  
and I forgot to tell you
Benedict said
I saw this

Daniel Boone film
the other day
up in Camberwell Green
in some flea pit

of a cinema
but it was good
and he had a rifle
but older looking

than mine
she sniffed
but looked at him
sideways

a weak smile
on her face
you should have come
he said

maybe next time I will
she said sadly
sure you will
he said

and they reached
her flat door
and she said
thank you

and he gave her
back the shopping bag
and she kissed his cheek
and went in

and he looked around  
to make sure
none of the boys about
had seen the kiss

as he had
a reputation to maintain
and kissing
or being kissed

by a girl
was maybe deemed
as a bit cissy
but none had

and he walked over
to the pram sheds
and sat on the roof
until maybe

she reappeared
happier not less so
as he thought
and feared.

I sit in a bar
with Miss Pinkie;
her son, who is a copper,
is getting the drinks.

She looks at me
and says:
we are just friends
if he asks
(as if I was going
to tell him
I was rogering his mother)
and don't talk politics
or say you write poetry.

I will be
the perfect gentleman,
I reply.

Her son comes
with the drinks:
a whiskey for his mother,
a beer for me
and a lemonade
for himself;
he sits down
and gazes at me.

So, Benedict,
what do you do
for a living?

I'm a nurse,
I work with your mum.

He looks at Miss Pinkie,
then at me.

What do you do?
I ask,
giving him
the Mr Innocence stare.

I'm a police officer;
aiming for C.I.D.

He sits upright
in the chair,
brushing a hand
over his dark hair.

What do you think
of the IRA?

Miss Pinkie stares at me
as if I'd let wind go in public.

They're a murderous lot,
he says;
you don't
support them
do you?

No, I don't support them;
I agree with their objectives,
but not their methods
of achieving
those objectives.

He looks at Miss Pinkie
and she looks at us both
as if she didn't know
who we were.

Both their objectives
and methods
are objectionable.

He takes a sip
of his lemonade
as if the very words
were distasteful
in his mouth;
I sip my beer;
his mother gulps
her whiskey.

What do you do
when you're not
being a nurse
and involved in
“leftist” politics?

I listen to music:
Wagner, Delius and Mahler,
and that crowd.

High-Brow stuff;
I like Johnny Mathis myself.

He wears a smug expression
and looks at his mother;
she looks at her glass.

What else do you do
apart from listening to music?
he asks.

I write poems
and read books.

You're not a queer
are you?

He stares at me
suspiciously,
then looks
at his mother.

Would I be
with your mum
if I were?

Miss Pinkie looks at me;
her blue eyes
are large as a cow's.

What do you mean?
he says.

Another drink?
I say,
another lemonade?

He means,
Miss Pinkie says,
we're good friends,
and he's not
that way inclined.

He stares at me
with a hard glare,
but I don't mind.

I walk across
to Hannah's flat
in Arrol House
and knock at the door

Mrs Scott opens
the door and stands there
she's a short thin woman
with a face of granite
with a slit
where her mouth is

whit is it?
she says
her Scottish accent
rough as stone

is Hannah home?
I ask

I dunnae kinn
she replies
HANNAH
she bellows
over her shoulder
Benedcit is haur fur ye
she adds
scowling at me

jist coming
Hannah replies
from back in the flat

yoo'll hae tae bide
Mrs Scott says

and walks back inside
leaving me
on the red tiled step

I look into the interior
of the flat
and smell breakfast
having been cooked

I look back
into the Square
kids are playing
near by
on the pram sheds
and over by the wall
girls are doing handstands
their feet
against the wall
dresses falling
over their heads
showing underwear

sorry about Mum
she has a mouth on her
Hannah says
where we going?
she asks

thought we'd go
to the South Bank
see the Thames and boats
and have ice cream
I say

do I need money?
she asks

just about 2/-
I say
for bus fares
and ice cream

I'll ask Mum
for a handout
but wait for the answer

Mum have you 2/-
I can have?
Hannah asks

fa dae ye hink
Ah am Rockerfeller?
nae Ah huvnae
her mother replies

no problem
I say to Hannah
I'll have enough
for us both

are you sure?

yes don't aggravate
your mother more
than you have to

so Hannah gets her coat
and we walk off
through the Square

she's like that sometimes
Hannah says
she's as tight
as a wing nut

we walk down the *****
and up Meadow Row

I ask her how her father is

she says
he's Ok but in
the doghouse more often
as not with Mum
but he's a softy
to Mum's hardness
but Mum says
he's soft in the heed
but he's lovely really
Hannah says

-I know her old man
he's English and a bit
simple after helping
to empty out Belsen camp
in 1945 where some
he told me were
more dead as alive-

we wait at the bus stop
she with her dark hair
pony tailed
with a tartan skirt
and white blouse
and me in blue jeans
and white shirt
and quiff of brown hair
and hazel eyes

she with a budding beauty
with her mother's
touch of tongue
who if roused
could give words
full lung.

Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like

one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug

taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside

her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her

back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by

the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,

seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,

foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway

her hips and ****, hands swinging,
gesturing.  She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in

his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a *****, a druggie slapper, she

said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.

He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,

smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and

she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.

Milka stares
at the fields
at the woods
at the sky

(coloured blue
as if it
was painted
by a child)

from her room
the window
open wide
her brother's

were at work
her mother
out shopping
her father

on the farm
yesterday
Benedict
and she lay

on her bed
they kissing
embracing
while downstairs

her mother
was cooking
the dinner
her brothers

out fishing
her father
milking cows
Milka stares

at her bed
empty now
Benedict
back at work

she alone
in her room
just the warm
memory

of his kiss
on her lips
and his lips
would have kissed

her elsewhere
other than
but she'd not
let him there.

Memory of your mother
rolling pastry
and you watching

her hands
and the rolling pin
and the way the pastry

was pushed down
and out
and then she took

the pastry
and put it over a dish
and spooned in

the cooked beef
and onions
and then placed another

rolled out piece
of pastry on top
and forked down

the edges of the pastry
and she said
do you want

the end clippings?
and you said
sure why not

and she gave you
the clipped off pasty
raw in your hands

and you began to eat  
noticing how red
and raw and worn

her fingers
and hands were
and how tired

her eyes looked
and wiping hair
from her eyes

with the back
of her floured hand
she pushed out a sigh

and you saw there
how a thousand dreams
of young girls die.

Do you remember
The water lilies
On Henderson's pond?

Were there lilies there,
I cannot recall?
Sure, you remember,

We came with the boys
To fish and gaze. Boys?
What boys were they?

My mind's just a haze.
Our boys, young Jacob
And John, remember

Them? John and Jacob?
We had two sons? Sure,
We did, way back then,

Years before. Where are
They now? Are they here
About? No, don't you

Remember? They died
In the War. You cried
For days and for years.

Poor dears; don't recall
Them, my mind's a haze.
You must remember,

How can you forget?
Who are you, then, dear?
Have we ever met?

You have to check
the bogs,
Blue says,
the inmates
try make off
with each
other sometimes.

I look at her,
the nurse,
younger,
yet more
authoritative.

Do they do it?

Will if they can;
some of the more
brighter have a hold
on the more
feeble minded.

I walk down
the corridor
of the hospital wing,
passing rooms,
side wards,
off corridors,
dark and uninviting.

I come to the toilets
and peer in.

Some big guy
is trying to ******
a younger guy.

Put him down,
Brogan;
this is not
the place or time.

The big guy looks at me
wondering what
to do or say;
he says nothing
and moves away
from Murphy
who just looks at me
and smiles.

Off you go, Murphy.

Off you go, Murphy,
he echoes
and trots off
back down the corridor.

That wasn't nice,
Brogan;
best be back
on the ward;
I think Blue's
looking for you.

His eyes enlarge
and he screws up
his nose.

He says nothing,
but goes by me,
looking at me
as if thinking
I may touch him,
but I don't,
unlike some,
I just walk back up
behind him.

Blue glares at him.

Have to watch him,
he's a molester.

Molester?

Yes, of kids,
filthy ******;
no one likes him;
what was he doing?

Having a ***.

He's dangerous;
he's here
for his mental state.

I watch as Blue moves off
in the direct
of a patient
rocking back and forth
on a chair over the way;
she talks to the man,
strokes his hair.

I look away.

There's a strong smell
of ***** about the ward;
it clings to you
like a disease,
enters your nose,
your clothes.

Blue takes hold
of Brogan's arm
and leads him
out of sight.  

I work days;
thank God
I’m not here
at night.

Jane passed the church, walked past the gravestones of those long dead, smelt the scent of flowers, heard the songs of birds in nearby hedgerows and trees. Benedict said to meet her there the day before while leaving the school van, about midday he had said. She had cycled from the vicarage where she lived with her parents, down through the narrow lanes, passed the water tower by the farm, riding carefully past the cottage where Benedict lived with his parents and siblings, on through narrow lanes until she had reached the church. She was happy to be meeting him again, from the time she had awoken that morning she felt a sense of excitement at seeing him, being in his company. Her mother had asked where she was going and she said to meet Benedict at the church on the other side of the hamlet. Her mother smiled; she liked Benedict, he was trustworthy, unlike some of the boys round about whom she would have felt uneasy about Jane meeting...Benedict sat in the churchyard in the corner away from the nearest grave, where the name and date had worn away over the years until just a few words remained visible. He looked around him, studied the shapes and size of the gravestones, many had become dilapidated over the years, but it was peaceful and he liked it being amongst the dead sensing the feeling of being beyond the here and now. He waited for Jane to come. He had asked her to meet him there the day before. She said she would. He looked forward to seeing her, having her  near him, seeing her eyes looking at him, her dark hair, brown eyes, that shy smile...Jane saw Benedict sitting on the grass in the corner, he was looking at the gravestones, his hands around his knees. He was in blue jeans and white shirt and black shoes. She passed a few graves when he looked up and saw her. A thrill of excitement went through her, her stomach churned, her heart beat fast...There she was, standing not far away, Benedict stood up from the grass and went to her and she smiled at him. Not late am I? she asked, putting a hand out to touch his. No, he said, just on time, looking at the watch on his wrist, feeling her hand touch his, buzzing his nerves with her touch...Jane sensed her tongue becoming stuck in her mouth; her eyes scanned him taking in his eyes, hazel bright, his brown hair with that quiff that she loved, that smile so warm and yet inviting. Her hand was in his, warm, soft, his thumb rubbing her skin...Benedict felt alive; felt so here and now that his heart beat so that it seemed it would crash through his chest. How are you? He asked, rubbing her hand, not wanting to let it go, but not wanting to hold it too long. I'm all right, she said shyly, wanting his hand to stay there, to feel him near her, listening to his every word...Jane looked around at the churchyard, saw the flowers on some of the graves, some dying of neglect, some fresh planted. Shall we look in the church? She said, see  the interior? Yes, he said, why not, not seen inside for ages(although he had a few weeks before when the girl Lizbeth had taken him there and had tried to ****** him inside on one of the pews and he had left and declined)...Jane looked at him, seeking to see if he mentioned the girl Lizbeth whom Jane had heard had taken Benedict there a few weeks before. She trusted him, but needed him to tell her about the girl from their school, thirteen like them, but more forward, more dangerous. I heard you were here with Lizbeth a few weeks ago, Jane said, not wanting him to be unaware that she knew, but wanting him to be honest with her...Benedict blushed and looked at her, releasing her hand reluctantly. Yes, he said, she took me here, or rather we came here.  He didn't know what to say, but he couldn't lie, not keep things back. She came to the cottage and asked me to bring her here because she said she was interested in the architectural aspects of the church, but she just wanted to do things, he said looking at the nearest gravestone, feeling unsettled. Do things? Jane asked, looking at him, seeing his blush still there, wondering what he had done. She wanted me to have *** with her on a pew in the church, he said, but that was after we were in the church and she tricked me...Jane caught her breath, brought her hands together in front of her, trying to make sense of what he was saying. *** with her on a pew? She said, the words soft almost choking her. You didn't did you? She asked, not believing she was asking him. No, of course not, I would never have come here with her had I known that was what she was after, he said, gazing at Jane, unsure of her reaction. She felt her heart beating fast in her breast, her mind was becoming out on a limb. How could she think you would? She asked, not sure what to say or asked any more...Benedict felt the world becoming almost too big for him. He wanted to take Jane and say it hadn't been for real that he had been tricked, that he wanted to be near her not Lizbeth. I don't know, Benedict said, I never encouraged her, thought she was interested in the church, but inside she changed and said we could have *** on one of those pews. Jane sensed an unease enter. And what happened then? She asked, looking at him shyly. Nothing, I left the church and she followed and I cycled back home and she followed me, but them rode off, he said, feeling undone, feeling as if the ground was about to swallow him up...Tears were rising to her eyes, she could sense them. Did you kiss her? She asked, wanting to know, yet not wanting to know. No, nothing at all, he said shaking his head, I wanted none of that. She bit her lower lip, tried to hold back the tears in her eyes. She sensed he hadn't, but she needed to be sure. She had heard about the girl at school, but had he fallen for her charms such as they may have been? Why did she want to have *** with you? She asked, blushing at the word *** in her own mouth. No idea, he said, seems to have this fixation with me and ***. She sensed the tears falling from her eyes and on her cheeks. She wiped them off with the back of her hand. Can I trust you? She asked, the tears making her throat feel sore. Yes, he said, I’d never betray you, never. Not with her or anyone, he added, feeling his world emptying like a fish thrown on dry land. She put a hand on his arm, squeezed it, drew him to her and he embraced her uncertain if it was for real or just a gesture. I trust you, she said, wanting him to hold her close to him, sensing her tears rub on his shoulder, dampening his shirt...Benedict held her tight, not wanting her to go from him, not wanting to lose even this one moment in her closeness. He smelt that naturalness about her, an apple scent, fresh air, purity like new snow, blossoms...She kissed his cheek; lips to skin, not pressured, but there wanting to express how she felt, how her heart felt, not lust like the Lizbeth girl, but love, yes, love for him...Benedict sensed her lips kiss his cheek, warm, soft. He held her tight, feeling her body close to his, sensing her soft ******* against his chest as he held her...Jane put a hand behind his head, drew him closer, her lips kissing his ear, his lobe, his cheek again, then she pulled away a little to look at him. I should not have doubted you or your what you would do or not do, she said softly, her eyes watery, her cheeks damp. I heard about her and her visit to you, but I wasn't sure if it was true or not, but it doesn't matter now, because I trust you, she said...Benedict held her as near as he dare, not wanting her to go from his hold. I would never hurt you. I didn't know what she was after. Jane put a finger on his lips. Hush, she said softly. Let us not give her the benefit of thinking she has undone us. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as if someone was punching him from the inside...Jane turned his head towards her and kissed him on the lips. He kissed her, too, his lips pressing against hers. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him as she had never hugged anyone before, her lips sealing him from breath, from leaving her, from going away...Benedict sensed her body so close now that his heart seemed to beat with hers in a duet of thumping inside. His lips felt as if welded to hers, wet and warm and soft and he sensed himself filling with tears, tears he'd not shown or felt before to this degree...Jane took his hand and they walked past the gravestones into the church and sat in a side pew next to each other. His hand was in hers; he rubbed his thumb against her skin, rubbed it gently. She squeezed his hand, turned and kissed him, then sat back and stared ahead. God's house, she said, she should never had thought you would do anything like that here, not in here...Benedict said, not anywhere with her, certainly not here. He recalled that day here with Lizbeth, how she had suggested they have *** on a pew and he taken aback by such a thing and how she thought it quite possible...Us, Jane said, us and not her, not anything she thought possible. He nodded and looked at the altar where a brass cross stood alone. Do you love me? She asked. He turned and gazed at her, his eyes searching each aspect of her features. Yes, I do, he said, as much as its possible to love. She smiled shyly, wiping tears from her damp cheeks. I love you, too, she said... Benedict closed his eyes. He wanted to capture her and her words and that moment for ever in his mind. He wanted being here with her now to over brush the image of Lizbeth here with him those weeks before, to have that image and words of Jane captured in his mind like a camera snapping it all and holding it in frame and picture for evermore... Jane breathed in and out slowly. He had closed his eyes. His hand was still in hers. His pulse pulsed with hers, a gentle beat, a soft thump, a mixture of one becoming two, an uncertainty going, a truth and love becoming true.

The white haired monk
lights a candle
on the altar;

his tonsured head
bows to the Christ;
his aged fingers

hold
the long lit
taper.

I help make soup
in the kitchen,
the cook monk,

watches
my every move;
I recall

how she ******
me in,
her whole body

vibrated
to my motion.
Dom James walks

from the orchard,
a basket of fruit
beneath his arm;

the sun warm,
the hour
a midday calm.

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

which doubled
as a sandwich
lunch room
you met Christina

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she asked
what friend?
you said
that Reynard boy

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

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

you said
he thinks
they’re like icebergs
icebergs?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that matters
she added
putting your hand
on her thigh

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

the beat of heart
pushing her tides
maybe
you said

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

It was mid term break
from school and she met you
at the back of your house

down by the small pond
you both called the pool
where you could sit

and watch ducks swim
and birds sing
in nearby bushes

and she said
I’ve just read about some nuns
who wear clothing

when they bath
so that God
can’t see them naked

a magpie flew by
and you noticed
how difficult it was

to tell
its wing from tail
and you said

Would God be interested
in seeing naked nuns?
she gazed over

at the trees
on the other side
of the pool

her blue eyes
catching sunlight
Well they obviously thought so

she said
and she lay back
on the grassy bank

and you lay beside her
and she put out a hand
and her fingers

touched yours
and you lifted up
her hand and kissed it

and it tasted of soap
as if you’d dived
into her bathwater

and swam
between her thighs
How sweet you are

she said as you let
her hand go
and she held it

and looked at it
then a blackbird
swooped across the pool

noisily and broke
the momentarily magic
and she said laughing

You don’t know
where my hand
may have been

and you taking in
the sunlight dancing
in her big blue eyes

Maybe not
you replied
not telling her

what
in your dream
you’d seen.

I might have known
said Dotty
I might have known

you were just like
all the rest of men
but

said Brintskin
don’t you but me
you slime snake

Mother always said
men weren’t
to be trusted

and she was right
I should have listened to her
instead going off with men

at such a young age
but hang on there
Brintskin said

I was getting a lift
in a woman’s car
after a hard day’s work

sure
Dotty said
sure you were

I know women
and I know men
and what happens

when they get together
and what did she want huh?  
want to show you her etchings?

no it wasn’t like that at all
she just asked
did I want a lift home

after work and I said yes
Brintskin said
I bet you did

I bet you couldn’t
get that word yes out
quick enough

why I bet she had her ******* off
before you could blink an eye
and as usual

you had to get
caught out didn’t you
and Dotty paused

for a moment
to pour a drink
and sip it

all the while
glaring at Brintskin
and he stared at her

as if she’d changed
into a bullfrog
and then she sighed

and said
well what happened?
nothing happened Sweetie

Brintskin replied
she just offered me
a lift home in her car

and I said yes please
and so she gave me a lift home
Dotty sat down

in the armchair
and crossed her legs
and Brintskin studied her thighs

as the skirt rose up
as she sat down
and Dotty said

ok so maybe I believe you
maybe what you say is true
and I am just getting

the wrong end
of the stick
you sure are

Brintskin said
following the line
of his vision

as far as his eyes
could go
and caught a glimpse

of ***** line
whiter than snow.

She tries to knit.

Her mother
showed her how
times over time.

Tapping the knuckles
if she got it wrong.

Drops a stitch.

Puts down the knitting
on the school desk.

Angela her friend says:
Never got it myself;
all fingers and thumbs.

Yochana rubs her knuckles.

That Benny boy
is looking at you?
Angela says.

Is he?
Yochana says.

She daren't look.

Blush.

Feels it coming
at the mere thought.

She picks up
the knitting again
and begins to knit
(of sorts).

Still looking.
What's he looking for?
His friend's gazing too.
Couple of loons,
Angela says.
Don't bother with them.

Drops a stitch.

All fingers and thumbs.

Blushes, thinks of him
and that kiss.

Cheek ward.

Suddenly there
he was that day.

Kissed.

Now and forever
still there
the memory of.

She glances over
her shoulder.

He smiles
and mouths a kiss.

She looks away.

The blown kiss
runs down the back
of her neck,
she can sense it there,
damp, warm,
a light running feel
(between thighs)
a mild inner storm.

Milka braves
her brothers'
teasing taunts

and gets dressed
in her room
what to wear?

she takes out
the short skirt
the red one

tries it on
does a twirl
bit too short

Mum will say
she mutters
shows too much

too much what?
she had asked
your *******

Mum had said
she takes off
the red skirt

and puts on
the knee length
orange dress

bit boring
with flowers
it will do

Mum likes it
will Benny?
he will be

coming soon
she mutters
she puts on

her stockings
and black shoes
ready now

she goes out
to show Mum
her mother

studies her
length of dress
stocking seams

straight and neat
shoes on feet
and behave

Mother says
behave what?
Milka asks

don't be smart
Mother says
I know best

what it's like
what what's like?
Milka grins

Mother stares
looks away
Benny comes

through the door
Mother smiles
dabs her hair

pulls her dress
stands *****
Benny smiles

like Elvis
Mother moans
inwardly

if only
she were young
Milka sighs

will this do?
shows Benny
the old dress

yes he says
that looks fine
Mother swoons

secretly
if only
she utters

inwardly
he was mine.

Milka was by the duck pond
we'd been to the cinema
to see an Elvis film
I’d bought us ice creams

and we were sitting there
getting some air
I thought my brothers
would be there

she said
they said they would
just to show me up
being with you

I watched her
as she spoke
her tongue licking
in between conversation

they just said that
to wind you up
I said
they've gone fishing

with your big brother
they always
do that to me
she said

get me wound up
that's brother for you
I said
the ducks swam

around the pond
there were geese
as well and other birds
pecking up bread

spread around
my mother almost
caught us
the other day

Milka said
that was close
I looked
at the ducks

you said your mother
would be out for ages
I said
I thought she would

Milka said
I remembered hearing
her mother
talking out

in the farmyard
to a farm hand
your mother's here
I recalled saying

to Milka as she lay
on her narrow
single bed
what O god

and she had thrown
on clothes
and cursing
under her breath

I put my jeans
back on
watching as her mother
chatted to the guy

get out
Milka said
go downstairs
make out

I’m in the loo
I just made it
as her mother
came in

the ducks swam around
I finished
my ice cream
as Milka licked away

her small tongue licking
her eyes gazing
at the swan
that had come down

large and white
swimming smooth
I kissed her neck
lips to flesh

warm and soft
and she giggled
and I loved the way
her bottom wiggled.

Milka and I
played
my Elvis Presley discs
in my room

on the old
blue record player
on the floor
she sat

on my bed
while I sat
on the floor
changing the discs

as I went along
she held up
one of the LP sleeves
Fun in Acapulco

she said
I like the cover
isn't he cute?
not sure

I’d say cute
I said
I like him
but not in a

cute sense
she read the blurb
at the back
can you play this?

sure
I said
so she handed me
the LP

and I put it on
the player
come sit next to me
she said

so I went
sat next to her
on the bed
and she leaned

against me
her head
on my shoulder
and I put my arm

about her
while Elvis sang
I can tell
you like Elvis

she said
you even comb
your hair like him
and smile like him

I smelt her scent
(borrowed
from her mother
no doubt)

felt the soft cloth
on her flesh
my fingers touching
her arm

where'd you get
the red stockings?
I asked
seeing them clearly

for the first time
they went well
with the green skirt
I thought

Mum got them for me
the other week
do they look ****?
she asked

you're already ****
I  said
she kissed me
and Elvis sang

a Mexican
sounding song
as she did so
I sensed the wetness

of her lips
her tongue poking
between my lips
tongues meeting

her arms
about my waist
my spare hand
on her thigh

Elvis singing
guitars playing
a trumpet blowing
we lay back

on the bed
the blue lampshade overhead
she closed her eyes
lips met

tongues engaged
hands moved
in the background
Elvis grooved.

Her mother
at the sink
peeling spuds

I behind
sitting there
in a chair
sipping tea
given me

radio
playing pop
some singer
singing soft

won't be long
she tells me
Milka's such
a slow girl
takes her time
at most things

(I know things
she's quick at
but don't tell
her mother)

I've told her
that you're here
Benedict
but you know
what girls are

I notice
her mother's
wide spread hips
bulging *******
beneath blouse

here she comes
she tells me

and Milka
enters in
sulky faced
arms folded

water's cold
couldn't bathe
she mutters
had to wash
using cold

no matter
Mother says
you're ok
fire's relit
be hot soon

too late now
Milka says
moodily

never mind
Mother says
Benedict
is here now

so we go
out the door
Milka's hand
searching mine
small and warm
heart thumping
mood a storm.

Milka touched
Benedict
on the arm

her fingers
running down
to his hand

Benedict
touched Milka
on her thigh

his fingers
running up
to her ***

their lips met
hot kisses
wet tonguing

both eyes closed
his fingers
making play

her fingers
tickling
his open palm

she thinking
dream like things
wedding bells

wedding rings
he thinking
fingers warm

entering
opened her
like flower

in spring time
her beauty
undone him

****** him dry
she asked him
her questions

like girls do
he answered
one word why?

Milka  wanted
to have ***
in the hay barn

but she feared
the rats and mice
or her father

finding out
and tanning
her backside

the colour
of sunset
so we went

to the cinema
and saw Elvis
with jangling guitar

and swinging hips
and after
we went  

to the park
and sat
on a bench

and watched
the ducks swim
but the hay barn

would have been better
despite the rats
or mice

or the tanned
backside
the colour

of sunset
she said
I bet.

I caught glimpse
of her between
double maths
and English Lit;

eyes feasted on her
as she passed,
she looking,
smiling,

her head turning,
then she was gone,
and I walked on;
but all through

English Lit,
the teacher
moaning on
about some Milton bit,

some lost paradise
or else was
something like,
but I thought on

about she who
passed me by
with that look
in her eye,

that sway
of her hips,
that swish of skirt,
that glimpse

of white socks,
and such,
and all too much
for Milton’s loss

of this or that
or teacher’s talk
or scribbled chalk
words upon the board,

my mind was fixed
on the sway
of hips
that caught my eye,

the smile of lips,
thrilling me
from toes
to finger tips.

You purloin books from
Monsieur Marteau’s large
Library; you like

The slightly saucy
Ones best; the books he
Hides from his wife. You

Can smell his sweaty
Palms all over them.
He has an eye for

You; you can tell by
The way he follows
You around the room

As you slowly dust
And polish around
The shelves, removing

Books and wiping them
Clean. You are very
Thorough Mimi, he

Says, not all maids are
As dedicated
As you, and he laughs

And you laugh with him
Putting on one of
Your pretend blushes.

Madame Marteau has
The face of a smacked
Bottom; her thin lips

Seldom spread into
A smile; her eyes are
As olives in snow.

Don’t be too long with
That dusting, girl, there
Is much to do and

When are you going
To tidy yourself
Up, you are so slow

And slovenly; not
What I expect from
A maid at all, she

Moans, her haughty voice
Echoing around
The hall. You love to

Read his saucy books,
His fingerprints are
On the edges, dark

And oily; his pipe
Tobacco stinky
Smell escapes from each

Page and you as you leave
The library and
Pull the door behind

You with a gentle
Click, you imagine
Him alone in there

Scanning over the
Saucy books; his lips
Drooling, his dull eyes

Being feed ****
Images and his
Sad wife elsewhere, now

Forgotten or too
Busy or moaning
At you; and while you

Snuggle up in bed
At night with the book’s
Thrilling dark pages,

His wife lies in her
Bed untouched, unloved,
Unkissed and cold and
Has been for ages.