Yiska sees Benny
walking by
the tuck shop
in the corridor

she is with her friend
on their way
to Geography
with Mr P

wait
she says
I must talk
with Benny

and follows Benny
a few paces
then says
Benny

he turns
and sees her
where are you going?
she asks

science
he says
some nonsense
about gravity

and falling bodies
or such
wish our bodies
could fall

somewhere together
she says smiling
me too
he says

Yiska's friend
stood a few paces back
arms folded
a bored expression

on her face
what about lunch recess
can we meet?
she asks

sure why not
he replies
she lingers
feeling a kiss

coming on
her body bubbling
where abouts?
she asks

meet by
the maths block
quieter there
at lunch time

she nods
senses he might
go soon
and grabs

his arm
and pulls him
towards her
and kisses him

on the lips
Benny holds her briefly
feels her waist
then they part

the friend over the way
looks down
at the floor
see you later

she says  
he nods
and walks off
in a hurry

to his next class
she watches him go
her body alive
her nerves aglow.

Miss Pinkie
opens her door
and smiles.

I see you brought
some wine,
good boy;
go through
to the lounge.

She takes
the bottle of plonk from me
and I go through
and sit
on the white sofa.

She's playing
the Delius LP
I bought her.

The lounge smells
of perfume
and a touch of *****.

She comes in
with two glasses of wine
and puts them
on the coffee table.

How are you?

Not bad, not good.

Somewhere in between?

Guess so.

She sits down next to me;
her left hand touches my knee;
she's starting early.

I like places in between.

I guess you do.

You know I do.
She smiles;
her dimples explode.

I see you've put on Delius.

Yes, he's good.

Like me.

Hardly, my boy, hardly.
Her hand
moves up my thigh.

I pick up my glass
and sip.

Her hand reaches
my in between
and I almost choke
on the wine.

Are you multi-tasking?

No,
just sipping my wine.

She's nineteen years
my senior;
she's like a poor man's
Marie Antoinette
in looks.

She picks up her glass
and gulps the wine down.

That's how one drinks wine;
do you think the Romans
sipped wine?

I gulp down my wine;
feel light-headed;
put down the glass.

On here
or in my bed?

Don't mind.

Indecision
shows indifference.

I smell her perfume;
it engulfs me.

Her hand resumes
its search of paradise;
her red-nailed fingers
reach home;
my pecker stirs
like a woken snake.

Here is best.

Thought so,
she says.

She removes
her lower garments,
I look away;
too much
of a good thing
kind of philosophy.

Delius plays on,
but I prefer Mahler
alongside
****** activity,
he has more passion,
more sensuality.

She lays back.

I lower
my lower garments.

Her phone rings,
rattles on
the nearby shelf.

She gets up
and waddles
to the phone
and answers.

Hello, how are you?

No, I’m ok.

Can't make it tonight
I’m a bit *******.

Tomorrow?
Yes, should be fine.

Bye-bye.

I sit there,
watching
her plump backside;
Delius has ended
and so have I.

A sense
of disappointment
and a big
warm sigh.

Ayez-vous
le temps ?

the dame
said to me

in Paris.
It's past

my bedtime,
I replied;

I really must
snuggle up

with teddy
and a glass of milk.

The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden

beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother

you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out

their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not

you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked

don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you

wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said

don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails

he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading

don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother

a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back

toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side

in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind

me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said

where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said

climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off

her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted

with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow

at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off

along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane

between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up

her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping

the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life

her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind

in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down

the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed

then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks

she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree

and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge

and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright

and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?

she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world

you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said

holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises

at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you

beside her
no you’re not
you said

nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said

bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are

you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire

out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica

nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed

and opening
and closing
her arms soft

and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion

like wings
her hands flopping
above her head

her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance

and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.

She remembers how he
Would watch her sleep
His eyes running over her
From toes to the top of her
Head and she pretending
To be asleep taking control
Of her breathing being the
Actress putting on a show
Keeping her limbs just so
And now and then to move
Them as she would in sleep
No doubt move a little shift
About and she recalls how
Once he touched her and
She had to keep utterly
Frozen her limbs stiff trying
To keep him out of her inner
Being and that touch he gave
Lingered over her thigh and
Then moved along it softly
As if he wanted to wake her
Gently not wake her in a start
Not to get all wound up and
Frightened and that time he
Nearly caught her out nearly
Broke up the acting put her
On the spot but she managed
To keep control of her nerves
And limbs and opened her
Mouth just so as to utter
Nonsense words sleep induced
Ramble and he took no notice
And she caught sight of him
Through a slit of her eyelids him
Standing there that stupid look
On his face his eyes wide and
The whites almost drowning
The dark pupils and now knowing
He was out of the room she can
Open her eyes and breathe out
And sniff the air and sense he’d
Been standing there the smell
Of his cigarette breath and his
Lack of personal hygiene and
She moves her limbs and her
Jaw and wiggles her nose and
Toes preparing herself for when
He comes back and she resumes
The show not wanting *** with
Him but not wanting him to know.

Perhaps tomorrow
I can hang
around with him
Sheila thinks of

the boy John
but after dinner
and bed
and dreams of him

and such
maybe then
it will be that way
she sits at the table

as her mother
brings meals
and she opposite
her brother

and  next to her father
on one side
and her mother
on the other

when she sits down
and all Sheila can do
is eat but ponder
on the boy

and what he will say
and she tries
to keep him at bay
in her mind

and thoughts
as she eats
but he keeps on
pushing through

into her thoughts
and being
and her brother says
why the long face?

what do yo mean?
the long face
he repeats
like you've lost

a long lost love
he adds laughing
you do look
kind of miserable

her father says
trouble at school?
no nothing
she says  

pushing her thin
wired glasses
up on her nose
where they'd slipped

long lost love indeed
her mother says
she don't need no
love nonsense yet

if at all
Sheila looks
at the clock
on the mantel shelf

the tick tock of it
trying to focus on
the tick tock
bet she's found

some boy to
swoon over
her brother jokes
holding his fork

half way to his mouth
don't know any boys
she says
don't want to either

she adds
good for you
her father says
enough to worry about

with school without
the added problems
with boys
and that lark

young girls
have no need of boys
her mother says
sitting regal in her chair

pushing back
a loose strand of hair
Sheila tries to smile
as if its' all a joke

as if I need a boy
to add to my life
and woes
what woes do you have

her father says
young kid like you?
she says nothing
forking in her meal

hoping the boy
will let her
go about
with him still.

You gaze down at your daughter, Camille, and lay your hand upon her body. She is asleep, resting after a long day, exhausted after the day with Boris at the Zoo, then the café in the park. You wish her father had been that affectionate, had taken the time to be with her, been interested enough to want to be with her and you, but he wasn’t, just other women, other things to occupy his life and mind. You stroke her rib cage; how thin she seems; not a bit like her father, not one ounce of him in her that seems apparent. You gaze at her hair, at the features that you can see, she takes after you, it’s in her face and eyes. Even her temperament is yours, you feel, and are glad, rather than her father’s moroseness, and cruelty. If you had taken you mother’s advice you would never have married Paterson, never have let his hands or lips near you, let alone marry the ****. He’ll be no good, for you, Mavis, she had warned on your wedding eve. You never listened; never took note; you knew best you thought. Marry in haste, relent in leisure, you father had said, in that voice that made you want to hit him, but you never did, although he had hit you many a time as a child, even for the most trivial of things. Dead now, preaching to some other crowd now, wherever he is. You smile at Camille’s sleeping face. Picture of innocence. Like you as a child, you guess. But there had been no Boris in your mother’s life; just your father and his preaching and teaching and moaning and sitting at the table with his long hangdog features and the cane by his hand ready for punishments. You remember creeping into your parents one night as a child and hearing the most awful noises in the dark; like your mother were being strangled or beat up upon, you raced from the room, hid under your blankets in case you father should come and get you. Camille came into you room last month as you and Boris were making love, her voice knifed you, so that you and Boris fell apart like some circus act gone wrong. She had wanted a glass of water, her small voice echoing through the dark, Boris and you panting, going all frigid as if death had claimed. Boris lay smiling in the dark, as you went, took Camille by her hand, fetched her water, lay her back to bed and to sleep. Now she sleeps again. Picture of innocence. Angel of your life. Your precious. Your daughter.

Your mother rolled out pastry
with the rolling pin
her hands pushing the implement
across the board

and you watched
her floured skin work their skill
backward and forward
under the palms of her hands

the thinning pastry
spreading out to an inch of width
until her hands stopped
and she flipped it over

and spread more flour
upon the board
with a flick and smoothing touch
of her hand

once that task was done
she lifted it to the dish
and eased it around inside
and around the edges

with her fingers and thumbs
working their way
in a circular motion
around the dish

then cut with a knife
the over hanging
unneeded pastry
and put it aside

like an umbilical cord
once the baby’s born
as her hands placed in
the stewed apple filling

you said
can I have the left over bits?
pointing to the wasted pastry
left aside

sure you can
she said
moving on with her skill
as you picked up the pastry

and walked away
noticing the sadness
in her watery eyes
and strained voice and words

following you across the room
as you ate the pastry
between your fingers
like a bird of prey.

There will be the placing
on of hands. She knows
that, he has done that
before. There will be the

unbuttoning of her blouse,
the slow undoing, one
button eased through
the hole. Then he will

pause, breath in deeply,
then proceed with the
removal of her blouse,
each arm in turn taken

out, then he will place
the blouse on the chair.
Here she will smile, hide
her unease. Then he will

unclip the bra from behind,
she will feel fingers moving.
Her ******* will fall free
once he has taken away

the bra. He will then lay it
somewhere out of her sight.
Next he will take an intake
of breath; she will sense it

on her back, a warm breeze.
Then he will unzip her skirt,
the zip going down over her
***, his fingers will linger here,

she will feel them, she will
then sigh. Next he will let
the skirt fall to the floor,
trapping her legs in the cloth.

She will step out, one foot
at a time. He will lift her skirt
and put over the back of the
chair and let it hang there.

After a short pause, he will
place his fingers inside her
silk underwear and take down
slow, as if unwrapping some gift.

Next she will step out and pick
them up and place on the chair.
Just her ankle stocking will be
left remaining. She will stand

as he walks around her, his
eyes moving over her, grey
slugs, damp and smooth. Then
he will go. Nothing quite as it

may seem. Each night he will
come, each night the same dream.

Enid removes her glasses
wipes them
on the hem
of her skirt

tries to clean off
the smeariness
she breathes on them
they cloud up

she wipes them again
I watch her
near the wall
of the playground

after lunch
waiting for her
are they better now?
she asks me

I look through them
the view is magnified
a million times
one big blur to me

yes that's better
I say
giving them
back to her

and watching
as she puts them
back on
pushes the wire arms

over her ears
then pulls the hair
over her ears again
is it all right now?

she asks me
sure I can see your eyes
clear as day
she nods

and looks
at the playground
and the other kids at play
why do some boys

call me four eyes?
or ugly bucket?
she asks
some kids are just finks

ignore them
I tell her
I can't help it
if I have to wear glasses

or am ugly
she says
intelligent people
wear glasses

and hey you're not ugly
I think you are
quite a pretty girl
as they go

she looks at me doubtfully
and then at the kids
and look Mrs M
wears glasses

and she's a teacher
and bright
Enid sighs and sits
on the steps

leading down
into the playground
even my dad thinks
I'm ugly

she says softly
you're old man
wouldn't know prettiness
if it came up

and introduced itself
I say
she smiles
do you think

I'm ugly?
I frown and peer at her
look I'm no expert
being a 9 year old kid

like you
but you can be
my Maid Marion
to my Robin Hood any day

could I?
she says
sure you could
she smiles wider

and says
thank you Benny
and walks down
into the playground

and goes play skip rope
with a couple of girls
by a wall
and I walk

down into
the playground
feeling six feet tall.

After boring nature study lessons
with Miss Ashdown
and on the walk home
from school

Janice said
the man along
the balcony
of the flats

where I live with my Gran
blackened
his wife's eyes
and locked her out

of their flat
and she was crying
and shouting
to be let in

and this was 4 o'clock
in the morning
and Gran went out there
and tried

to get the man
to let his wife in
but he wouldn't
and someone phoned the police

but they said it was a domestic  
and that she'd have
to sort it out herself
and so Gran let her stay

at our place
for the rest
of the night
and so she slept

on our settee
not that she slept much
she was crying
for a long while after

here Janice paused
by the newspaper shop
and went in with you
to buy some sweets

with money
she had over
from her birthday
and you had enough

from your pocket money
to get some bubblegum
then walked on
so what happened next?

you asked
she went back
to her flat this morning
and knocked

on the door of her flat
and he let her in
by which time
he had calmed down

and was all over her
like chickenpox
as Gran said
what an ****

you said
not what Gran would say
but yes he is awful
and it's not

the first time either
and her eyes
were really bruised
this morning

if I thought
it'd do any good
you said
I'd go round there

and blow him away
with my toy 6 shooter
Janice looked at you
that wouldn't help

she said
no I guess not
you said
but at least it'd show him

we don't like his sort
in town
we don't
Janice said

once he dragged her
along the balcony
by her hair
and Gran chased him

with her broomstick
and he rushed indoors
leaving his wife
on the balcony

in a heap
I could always fire
an arrow at him
as he entered the flats

from the balcony
you said
no
don't it wouldn't do

any good
Janice said patiently
you went down
the subway together

and along
and your words
echoed
along the walls

especially the words
he's a *******
having that gross sound
as it bounced

off the walls
like bullets
from a gun
and Janice said

hush not so loud
but you liked it
you liked playing
to the crowd.

We were allowed out
of the coach
to stretch our legs
and have a quick look
around Poitiers
in France

Miriam stretched
her arms out
and kicked out
her legs
almost got cramp
she said

I could have massaged
them for you
I said
I’m an expert
at massaging
away cramps

sure you are
she said smiling
but not
on the coach
it's too impersonal

we walked around
Place de Gaulle
looking in shop windows
and cafés and restaurants

how about some coffee?
I asked

if you're paying
she said

anything for a lady
I said

and what did you want
in exchange?
she said
putting her hands
on her hips

who said anything
in exchange
I just want to buy
you a coffee

she smiled
OK if you say so
she said

so we sat outside
a small café
and ordered
two coffees and cake
and the waiter went off

I lit up a cigarette

what's the book
you're reading
on the coach?
she asked

it's called The Apostle
I said

what's it about?

St Paul

isn't he the guy
who fell from his horse
or donkey
when a voice
called to him
at Damascus?

yes something like that
I said

why are you
reading about him?

he interests me
I said

why?

well he went
from being a persecutor
of what we call
Christians now
to actually joining them
and becoming one
of their leaders

enough already
she said
I heard he
was against ***
and all that

I guess
he was not keen
on the idea

and you want to read
about him?
*** is a brilliant thing
without it
no one would
be here
not even that Paul guy
she said

the waiter brought
our coffees and cake
and went off

beside
she said
you weren't practising
what this Paul guy
was preaching
on the coach last night

never said I was
practising anything
but it was dim
on the coach
and most others
were asleep

she ate her cake
and I recalled
the coach radio
playing some Mozart piece
the night before
while she and I
tried to explore.

Susie polishes the silver.
She hates polishing the
forks, the bits in between,
the stink of the cleanser.

She’d rather be in bed
with Polly in the attic.
Holding her close, feeling
her body next to hers.

The cold weather offers
a good excuse. Polly’d
say, get off me you queer
***, otherwise. She rubs

the cloth over the prongs,
the stink making her feel
nauseous. Dudman, the
butler will be along soon.

He’ll snoop up close to her,
look over her shoulder;
press his body next to hers.
Maids are as nothing, he

often said, pressing his
finger into her back, or
pinching her ****. She holds
her breath as long as she

can; the stink is getting to her.
She thinks back to the night
before, Polly’s nightgown
against her flesh, her smell

invading her nose, spooning
close. She recalls the moon
in the skylight, captured like
a painting, the stars spread

like ***** on a dark cloth.
Mrs Gripe the cook called her
a lazy cow over breakfast,
the fat ***** staring at her

with her cow like eyes. She
rubs between prongs, eases
along the handle. She’d love to
shove the fork into Dudman’s

****; push it in with all her
might.  Soon the bell would
ring, someone would want
morning tea upstairs. She

breathes out, puts down
the fork, picks out a spoon
and begins the cleaning again,
thinking of Polly, her fingers

caressing the spoon’s end,
imagining ******* along
Polly’s waist, moving her
thumb into the indentation,

sensing her body move, that
weird overriding sensation.

He’s gone off to war once more.
Polly has seen him leave from
an upstairs window. Master George
in his smart uniform getting into

the family car.  He looked up at her
and took of his hat. No one else
looked thank God. Now she has
to sleep in the attic with Susie again

and not with George and his
warm loving ways and beautiful ***.  
She stands by the window until
the car is out of sight. No more ***

for her tonight. Susie had the sulks
for the days she slept alone, the
cold sheets, the lone pillow, none
to hug and hold against the cold.

Polly walks from the window with
her mop and bucket and enters
the room where they’d lain the
night before and mops the floor.

She imagines he is still there in his
bed, the pillow embracing his dark
haired head, his eyes soaking her in,
drinking her up. She wants now to

imagine him putting his hands about
her waist, squeezing, kissing her neck,
the damp patches on her skin. War
mustn’t maim him or **** him, she

mutters, moving the mop, war must
not take him from me. The bedroom
window is open to the morning air.
She leaves the mop and sniffs the

pillow where he lies no more. Her
cheek lies where he lay; she can sense
his smell, sniff him into her head, wanting
him back and whole, not lying in No Man’s

Land wounded or dead. Dudman the butler
calls her name, along the passageway,
his footsteps treading, bellowing like a
cow in labour, she grabs the mop and

mops away, saves her thoughts of George
and love and *** for another day.

Polly strips back the sheets
where Master George has lain.
She folds the white sheets and
lays them on a chair. She lies

her head on the pillow where
his head has been. She sniffs
and smells him. Closing her eyes
she imagines she’s there beside

him and he has her in his arms,
his lips against her flushed cheek.
She imagines they are in bed
together when dawn’s light breaks

through the shutters and Susie
the other maid enters and wide
eyed she mouths a huge round O.  
She opens her eyes; the pillow

is vacant beside her head, just
a small indentation where he had
laid his head the night before.
She fingers into the pocket of her

white apron a few black hairs she’s
discovered on the white pillowcase.
She strips off the pillowcases and
puts them with the sheets. The bed

is now stripped of all coverings
and is left to air. She imagines as
she stands that he is still there,
laid out unclothed, skin all bare.

But in reality she knows he has
gone of to war as he has before.
She hopes he will return alive
and in one piece; no missing

limps or blind or gassed as some
have been she’s read; but most of all
she dreads him laid out cold and damp
in some foreign field lying still and dead.

Yehudit sat by the pond.

The morning was warm,
sunny, white puffs of clouds
drifted overhead. Benny lay
on his back beside her, eyes
closed, hands behind his head.

She gazed at him. Not sleeping,
eyes motionless behind lids.

Resting he'd say. She took in
his blue jeans and off white
short-sleeved shirt, open necked.

She looked away, back at the pond.

Drakes and ducks swam. A swan
was over the far end. Elegant.

Can be vicious. Suppose they
can be. She put her hands around
her knees, fingers entwined.

Her skirt just over the knees.

Green stockings. Itchy. She
sniffed the air. Flowers, farm
smells over the way, water smell.

She looked at the long grass
behind her. Some months back
they'd been there. She gazing at
the sky, he on top of her. His
hazel eyes, looking into hers.

His quiff of hair on his forehead.

She liked that, the way it moved
as he did. She listening for sounds.

Footsteps in the grass, old broken
branches crunched under foot.

Voices on the wind. Wonder if
we would have? Maybe. Another
time. Too  soon. She looked away,
back to the pond. The swan was
nearing the ducks. Circles of water
spread over the pond. There was
that time further in the woods,
dense wood, tall trees, bushes.

Unexpected. Suddenly they were.

She wondering: was this how it was?
He eyes closed, moving in a motion,
entering, sensed him. Her coat on
the ground, cushioning. The tree
tops swaying, his quiff of hair,
clouds moving slow overhead.

She looked at him beside her,
eyes closed, his breathing slow,
but regular like one who dozed.

Miss Billings leaned
against the doorframe
looking at Mr Fredericks
pushing a broom

on the forecourt
of the petrol station
look at the old ****
pushing broom

she said
it’s his way of getting you
to do the job kid
you looked out

the glass front
as Mr Fredericks limped
pushing broom
I didn’t see him

go out there
you said
he probably sneaked out
she said

does it all the time
it makes him feel good
to see you go
creeping out there

she pushed her glasses
up the bridge of her nose
and put her hands
on her hips and did

that Monroe thing
she did quite often
you went out
to the forecourt

and said to Mr Fredericks
I can do that
I can push the broom
he handed you the broom

and limped inside
without a word
you swept along
the edge of the forecourt

Miss Billings moved
outside a bit
and said
told you kid

that’s the way he is
bet he don’t do that
when he beds his wife
or maybe he does

who knows
and she walked off
her backside like
a poor man’s Monroe

swaying side to side
and you watched her go
standing holding
the broom

the red cardigan
the white overalls
the black stockings
and then she had gone

into the back office
through the swing door
time to get on
with sweeping

you thought
but her swaying backside
lingered in your mind
her poor man’s Monroe

right down
to her blonde hair
and the way she stood
you’d be her

Clark Gable
(in miniature)
if you could.

Saba sat there
and posed herself
all ready for what
she didn't say

part of my job
she said
this posing
this being seen
as such

I gazed
like a man dazed

haven't you seen
a woman like this
before?

yes
I said
sure I have

then why
the wide eye gaze?
she said

I sat down opposite
hands on my knees
looking at her hair
at her eyes
the pose
do you do this often?
I said

only if he wants me to
she said
he'll be back
he's just gone
for a bite to eat

don't you eat too?

not yet
if I get out of pose
I lose my focus
she said

does he pay well?
I asked

this is art
she said
I get enough
but it's not the pay
that counts
it's being part
of art
it'll be me
on the canvas
me outliving him

I wanted a smoke
but I’d left them
in my coat downstairs
got a ciggie?
I asked

he doesn't allow
smoking
in his studio
she said
fire risk
oils
and other
stuff around

when do you get done?
I asked

when he says
she replied
not a nine
to five job

I gazed at her
with more focus
putting out of mind
the image of her
sitting in the church pew
with her husband
he all prim and proper
and she innocent as cream

she uncrossed
her legs
revealing
a young man's dream.

Black robed,‭
the monk pauses‭
in the cloister-‭

prayer mode,‭
eyes glancing,‭
catches sight‭

of Red Admiral,‭
flower to flower,‭
wings a flap.‭

I mow the grass‭
by the church wall,‭
the motor running,‭

cut grass in flight,‭
sweaty brow,‭
wipe with thumb end‭

near palm.‭
The balding‭
peasant monk,‭

head to one side,‭
walks in the aisle‭
between choir stalls,‭

carrying the old broom‭
in his red white‭
knotted knuckled hand,‭

black robes‭
sweeping the floor‭
as he walks.‭

His high brows‭
are raised‭
like awaiting hawks.

Bring out the pottery boy
Mr A said
bring it out front
so the other boys can see

your work
I took out my clay pottery
attempt to the front of class
and stood there

holding the pottery
on a wooden tray
Mr A gazed at me
through his black framed

Beatnik glasses
his eyes like huge marbles
what you call this
huh boy?

I looked at the hand rolled
clay ***
haven't called it
anything yet

I said
thinking of a name
he went stern eyed at me
are we attempting wit

as well as pottery?
He said
a mild titter
from some boys

in the class
here
he said
in a raised voice

like a failed actor
here we have
an example how not
and I repeat NOT

to make a ***
the classroom went quiet
I stared at my ***
lopsided and brown

like a rushed ****
what were you attempting?
Mr A asked
whatever it was

it most certainly was not
a ***
I said nothing
I gazed at him

in his snot green jumper
and Beatnik beard
and brown
corduroy trousers

and sandals
I don't know
why I bother
with pupils like you boy

he said
waste of my time
I stood looking
passed him at Danny

who was boss eyed
and pulling a face
I suppressed a smile
and looked dull

go back to your place
and spare me
the sad boy look
so I returned to my desk

with my ***
leaning further east
and placed it down gently
as if it were some work

of modern art
Mr A then poked
Eddie in the back
and held up his ***

which went in and out
like armless model
of Greek design
worse

Mr A said
than mine.

Christine winds
the necklace
around her

going red
small finger
the small linked

silver chain
swells the flesh
why do that?

the quack asks
to get me
away from

deeper pain
she utters
the quack scowls

his eyebrows
like dark birds
join in deep

hovering
signs of non
approval

she unwinds
the necklace
the finger

once again
turning white
practising

she whispers
shoving it
deep within

the cleavage
of her plump
bra-less *******

the quack stares
like some kid
taken in

by an old
conjurer’s
sleight of hand

all gone now
can't see trick
you big *****

she mutters
feeling then
the warm chain

fall between
her closed thighs
sitting there

silver links
shut away
from his eyes.

Prayers will help, the pastor said.
Hands joined, rest on her stomach,
the blue dress, neat and clean, her
hair set just so. Eyes closed, lips

mouthed prayers. Behind closed eyes
memories stirred, waking giants,
deep feelings woke from dark sleep.
Light from open window warmed

eyelids, skin, hands. She saw behind
lids, shadowy figures, deeds done.
Some other place, other time, all
remembered, recalled. She bit her

lip between teeth. Sensed the smell,
familiar scent, odour more. His not
hers. Side by side, smells, memories,
deeds and music, sensations and

feelings of uncleanness. Just this
once he had said. Just the once.
More after. Each time deeper, more
hurtful. None had known. So said.

Some must have. Time and tide.
She felt sunlight on cheek. Eyes
behind lids moved.  Shadows lingered,
dark room brought sweat and damp

beneath armpits. Clothes removed,
by whom? She or another? Where
was Mother? Father lost at sea. No
return, body lost, sea swallowed.

The bed warm, shutters closed, lie
still, said he. There was that candle.
Yes, remembered that. Light moved
in draft’s touch, slight, not overmuch.

She sensed even the now the then’s
feel, the touches, the pains, thrusts.  
Bathing brought no cleanness, no
undoing, no removing from mind’s

surface the worms of dark deeds.
Prayers will aid, pastor claimed,
what he didn’t know of, just general
stuff, depression, sadness on skin’s

surface, bags under eyes, weeping
over meals.  Dressed such as she did,
plain, no frills or glamour or over
the top colours and patterns. Not

wanting to attract, she clothed dull.
She had been undone, ill used, nightly
mucked, and unknown to Mother, ******.

Bring back my precious
I miss her warm embraces
That thawed my cold dark.

Dalya met Baruch in Oslo,
a small cafe in a back street;
he was eating a cream cake

and coffee. She was fuming
over the Yank ***** that she
shared a tent with back at

base camp. It’s like sharing
with a scented skunk, she said.
Baruch listened, the fiery girl

sat opposite him, stirred her
latte, spat out words. Baruch
was halfway through the Gulag

book, the Solzhenitsyn eye
opener on the labour camps
of Russia. Dalya’s gripe seemed

pretty shallow; her language
left little to the imagination,
rough words, hard chipped,

chiselled out of rock sort of thing,
he thought, watching her mouth
move the words. Always about

the men she’s had, Dalya said,
as if I cared a monkey’s. Baruch
forked in more cake, fingered

off cream from his upper lip
and licked. They’d picked up
the American in Hamburg,

squeezed her into the overland
truck with the others. And oh,
yes, where she's been, Dalya said,

she’s been under the Pope’s
armpit, no doubt.  She sipped
the latte, stared at Baruch, her

eyes dark blue, her lips thin, her
hair dark and curled. Maybe she
has, Baruch said, but what’s it to

you? I have to hear her jabbering
on in the tent night after night,
Dalya said, and me trying to get

to sleep. You can always swap with
me, he said, she can share with
the Aussie prat, who’s in with me.

She didn’t reply, but looked at her
latte, stirred with the plastic spoon.
And what would my brother say?

He’d tell the parents when we got
home. Baruch knew her brother
wouldn’t have minded, he was often

drinking and drunk till blinded.
Baruch had only suggested it in
jest, nothing really meant, but she
was preferable to the Aussie in his tent.

Milka followed Baruch
along the road
to his parent's house
and up the stairs

to his bedroom
she looking about her
as she climbed
won't your parent’s

be home?
she asked
no they're at work
he said

my mother until
half two
Milka nodded
and thought

of the bewilderment
if they came home
too soon
and what if they did?

they came to the landing
and he showed her
the single bed
by the wall

next to another
by the window
whose bed is that?
she asked

my brother's
Baruch said
he's away
oh

she said looking
at the single bed
by the wall
with the blue bed cover

well?
he said
what do you think?
she looked at the bed

and then at Baruch
it's a bit narrow
she said
it'll be ok

he said
unless you don't want to
he said
she bit her lip

are you sure
no one
will be back early?
sure as sure

he said
he took in
her bright eyes
the hair

shoulder length
and well groomed
the yellow
tight fitting top

and blue jeans
she looked by him
at the window
can anyone see us?

he looked out
the window
I’ll close the curtains
he said

she looked at him there
eyes wide open
and alert
his black jeans

and white shirt
you don't have to
he said
just thought

that after last time
in the barn
it would be better here
she nodded

that was a bit
uncomfortable
she said smiling
hay and straw

in my *******
when I got home
he smiled
yes and that mouse

that ran over
my backside
she laughed
and relaxed

and I screamed
she said
he nodded
and looked at her

standing there
by the bed
we don't have to
if you'd rather not

he said
she looked at him
and said
I want to

it's just the anxiety
that your parents
will come home
and catch us

he stroked her hair
they won't
he said
I'd not risk it

if I thought
they'd be home early
she sat on the bed
and he sat next to her

she kicked off her shoes
and he did so too
she looked at him again
then  stood up

and unzipped her jeans
and took them off
and laid them
on the other bed

he did like wise
she took off the top
over her head
and placed it on top

of her jeans
he took off his shirt
and put it on top
of his jeans

then she unclipped
her bra
and threw it
to the other bed

he stood there
gazing at her
small mounds
the brownish dugs

she removed
her pink *******
and flicked them
to the bed

by the window
where they rested
by the windowsill
he took off his briefs

and threw them over
by his jeans
she breathed out
deeply and slowly

he put a hand
on right breast
felt the softness
ran his fingers

over the dug
she smiled
and touched his pecker
then she lay down

on the bed
and he lay beside her
his hand touching
her thigh

and she saw
the sunlight
through
the uncurtained window

in the bright
midday sky.

Death is a mere inch
or so away;
he stares in at us

day after day,
hour by hour,
moment by moment.

His cold fingers touch,
icily run down the spine;
shivers remember that?

Well Death
was just trying you out,
giving you the feel.

Death will leave you be
for a year or a day
or maybe

a whole decade
or more;
but it's just

a waiting game,
so get living,
take that vacation,

have that read
or go play pool
or have ***

or eat your fill
until you're ill,
but in the end,

my friend,
Death is there,
rubbing his

bony hands;
but Death’s only

a transporter
to another place,
deeper,

calmer,
warmer,
but Death

won't tell you such,
he'll just pretend
it's the end.

There is that failure of communication,
At least of that soft civilized kind, the
Type that doesn’t involve blackened eyes

And broken teeth and bruises like fallen
Apples. She tries to hide her face behind
Her scarf, pulls up the collar of her coat

To conceal the bruises to her throat, pulls
The sleeves down to cover up discoloured
Arms and long skirts to mask the beaten

Thighs from her neighbours prying eyes.
He is full of jackshit and self-pity and
Mopes and sulks and blames her for the

Messy house, the kids crying, the bills high,
His fists flying. Unconditional love is the
Only real love, her mother said, lecturing

To her on her wedding eve, pushing the
Rosary beads between fingers and thumb.
Nights he doesn’t come home are best, she

Can sleep and unwind and rest. Even the kids
Can feel the peaceful air when he isn’t there.
His apologises are fake notes, they bring her

Nothing, reveal nothing, cast false hopes like
Wasted seeds, open up the pretending dreams
That life is always better than it is or seems.

I liked the way
Yochana's fingers
pretended to play piano
on the top
of the school desk

nimble
thin

Miss G
greying hair
in a bun
eyeing the class
as the Chopin
piano piece
floated
from the record player
on the teacher's desk

the class was silent
no one talked
or smirked

I followed
Youchana's fingers move
swallowed
the dryness
in my throat

studied how
her elbows
gracefully flowed
in and out
in artificial play

if she'd been
a liquid
I would have
drank her in
to quench
my thirst for her

the outline
of her narrow frame
the curve scant
but there
of her hips
and the long
dark flowing hair.

Janice you thought
prettier than Helen
more refined

whose voice
was softly spoken
as if her words

had been fresh baked
in an oven
in her mouth

and her hair fair
and well groomed
but Helen had

that down to earthiness
that brought her
closer to you

and something about
her thin framed
thick lens glasses

made her seem
more lovable
to your boyish world

and she stared at you
through them
and smiled

that shy smile
and said things
with a rough edge

as if she’d bounced
the words around
before she uttered them aloud

you can come to tea
and we’ll have bread and jam
and a big mug of tea

or if mum’s remembered
lemonade
she said at playtime

in the playground
out of hear shot
of the other boys

who kicked ball
or who swapped cards
or threw marbles

along the ground
or fought battles
with imaginary swords

or shot pretend bullets
from rat-a-tat guns
and she said

to entice you more
you can see my new doll
my dad brought back

from the store
ok
you said

sure
and she smiled
and her nose creased up

and her glasses moved
and some small place
in your chest thumped

like furniture being dropped
or a bed being bounced
in some small hotel

and you watched her
go off to play skip rope
that thin framed

thick lens glasses
working-class
school girl.

Sister Teresa put down the pen. Eyes searched page. White and black. Scribbled words. Meaning there some where amongst the lines, she mused. Bell rang from bell tower. Echoed around cell. Closed her eyes. Held hands together. Sighed a prayer. Allowed the dark and peaceful to swim about her. Out of the depths, O Lord, she whispered. Opened eyes. Parted hands, rested on the table before her palms up, and read the signs. The last echo went out of the room. The whisper of it out of earshot.First-class now this age; first-rate her papa had thought; foremost her mama decided. Gone now Mama, she mused, lifting her body from the chair and walking to the window. Gone except memory. What the little child had seen she wanted to forget. Some memories are best buried. The sky was cold looking; the clouds shroud-like. Held hands beneath habit; clutched hands child-like. Mumbled prayer. Watched nuns move along cloister; watched the slowness; sensed the coldness of the air. If possible, Lord, she murmured, moving from window, walking towards the door. Paused. Looked back. Stared at crucifix on wall. The Crucified agonised, battered by age and time. Smiled. Nodded. Turned and opened the door and walked into the passageway. Closed the door with gentle click; hid hands beneath the cloth; lowered eyes to floor’s depth. Wandered down by wall’s side. Listened. Sighed. Sensed day’s hours; day’s passage and dark and light. Entered cloister and felt the chill wind bite and snap. Best part, Papa had said. Men are not to be trusted, said he many a time. Felt the cloister wall’s roughness with her right hand. Sensed the rough brick; sensed the tearing of the flesh on wall of brick; the nails of Christ. Mama had died her own crucifixion. The child closed the door having seen in the half-dark, she recalled, closing her eyes, feeling the chill wind on her cheek. Paused. Breathed deep. Saw sky’s pale splendour; saw light against cloister’s wall; saw in the half-light. Nun passed behind. Sister Helen, big of bone, cold of eyes, cool of spirit. Cried once; cried against night’s temper. Months on months moved on; days on days succeeded. Papa had said, the zenith of the passing years, my dear child, your mama’s love. How pain can crucify, she thought as she moved on and along the cloister, lifting eyes to church door. Nails hammered home to breast and ribs, she murmured as she entered the church. Fingers found stoup and tip ends touched cold water; blessed is He, she sighed. Eyes searched church. Scanned pew on pew; nun on nun. Sister Bede nodded; held hands close; lifted eyes that smiled. Where Jude had been buried, Papa had not said. Ten years passed; time almost circle-like, she mused, pacing slow down aisle to the choir stall. Sister Bede lowered her head; lowered her black habited body. Saw once as a child but closed the door. Poor Mama. Who is she that came and went? Long ago. Time on time. Papa had missed her; tears and tears; sobs in the mid of night. Mother Abbess knocked wood on wood. Silence. Closed eyes. Dark passages lead no where, Papa said. Chant began and echoed; rose up and down; lifted and lowered like a huge wave of loss and grief. Where are you? What grief is this? Night on night, her papa’s voice was heard; echoed her bedroom walls; her ears closed to it all except the sobs. De profundis. Out of the depths. Dark and death are similar to man and child. Opened eyes to page and Latin text. Bede and she, to what end? Death, dark, and Mama’s fears echoed through the rooms of the house; vibrated in the child’s ears; bit the child’s heart and head. This is the high point Jude had said; had kissed her once; had held her close and she felt and sensed. Men are not to be trusted. Breathed deep. For thine is the kingdom. And Papa’s words were black on white and pained her. Jude gone and buried; mama crucified; Sister Rose fled the walls; wed and wasted to night’s worst. Come, my Christ, she murmured through chant and prayer; come lift me from my depths; raise me up on the last day. Voice on voice; hand on heart; night on night. Jude had said be prepared for the next meeting, but dead now; Passchendaele claimed him. Voice on voice, Amen. Chill in bone and flesh. Breath eased out like knife from wound. Bede looked and smiled; hid the hands; bit the lip. Men are not to be trusted. Jude long gone. Nuns departed. Bede turned and went with her gentle nod. Paused. Sighed. Come, my Lord and raise me up, she mused, stepping back from stall and the tabernacle of Christ. Raise me up. Raise your lonely bride from death and dark.

There was a knife fight
in Stockholm the night before
and next morning
Dalya says to me

did you see it?

yes I was a few feet away
just broke out
like a struck match
two guys near me
began pushing
and one drew a knife

what did you ?

sold tickets

no really ?

nothing I just moved out
of harms way
and wondered what
it was about
there was a dame nearby
so maybe they
were fighting over her
I say

was she screaming?
Dalya asks

no she was saying
stop it
and don't be fools
and such words

and did they?

no they kind of
encircled each other
then a siren went off
and cops came
and they melted
into the crowd
and I walked on
to the nearest bar
for a beer and smoke
where were you?
I ask

looking for you
you weren't where
you said you'd be
I met that Polish
mother and daughter
and we went off
in the city and yes
it was ok
but I wanted
to meet you
I couldn't invite them
into my tent could I?

guess not
anyway we can
go off today
in the City
and maybe I can
enter your tent tonight
now the German girl's
gone off
with the Aussie
I say

I'm promising nothing
she says

so we went into the City
on a bus about 10
and I felt
like a prince
amongst men.

The black robed monks
genuflect towards
the altar

then bow
to each other
then take their places

in the choir.
I **** the grave
of an old French monk

in the monk's cemetery,
holding up
the bright red poppy

like a pagan's head.
The old peasant monk
sits in the stall

at the back of the church
where the lay brothers
used to sit

in the old days,
he stares
at the spot

on the flagstone floor
where sunlight
comes and lays.

Watching the ballerina
tying her ballet shoes
preparing for Swan Lake
you remembered

that time in London
when Judy was away
for the week in Italy
and you were held

by the black dog
its teeth holding
onto your soul
going to the coffee bar

in Leicester Square
sitting there
gazing out the window
watching the people

feeling the dark mood
deepen
waiting for time
for the ballet to begin

at Covent Garden
then you are there
sitting in your seat
surrounded by others

well dressed
high talk
posh tones
and you thought

you saw Judy
in the faces
that were there
even one

of the ballerinas
seemed to be her
the same hair
the figure similar

and when the lights lowered
and darkness held you
you thought of her
beside you

her perfume
her soft voice
but some other dame
sat there some brunette

some thin *****
dressed in blue
and yellow
then the music began

the Tchaikovsky
the black dog biting
and Judy in Italy
and you stuck there

at the ballet
some other time
some other year
and you watched

as the ballerina
having tied on
her shoes
stood and prepared

and stared
as you sat
thinking back
mixing it

with that depression dog
of black.

When Christine heard
that he'd tried
to hang himself
in the men's crapper

desperation bells
began to ring
inside her head
then she saw him

on the locked ward
sans laces
or belts
or anything

he may use
to repeat
the performance
and he sat

in the big chair
his eyes dull
and his hair untidy
and with that loose hanging

dressing gown
minus belt
and in pyjamas
like some

Auschwitz guy
and she said
what the ****
you in here for?

sitting in the armchair
next to him
broken heart
broken love

lost love
soul crashing
through all gears
to get back

to base
who knows?
he said
like that huh?

join the club
for what it's worth
we're all ****** up here
like driftwood

on a lonely beach
on some deserted island
she said
he gazed at her

disinterestedly
as if a gnat
had landed
on his hand

they lock
the doors here?
sure do
all the time

what about visitors?
once a week
Sundays
he looked at her

at her dark
long straggly hair
her dull eyes
why you here?

he said
some ****
left me
at the altar

all dressed up
like some nun
in white
she said

he must have been
mad to have left you
anywhere
he said

well he must be
because he did
opposite
an Indian woman

sat crossed legged
picking
at her toes
a red spot

on her forehead
dressed
in long gowns
of bright colours

a plump woman
walked by smoking
eyeing them
suspiciously

foul mouthing
the nurse going by
so how long
you been here?

he asked
week or so
how long you staying?
until they say

I can leave
when will that be?
when they think
I’m better

or cured
or able to be
balanced again
when will that be?

how the ****
do I know
she said
sorry

about the language
anger gets
to my tongue
before I do

you're not going
to hang yourself
again are you?
she asked

don't know
who I am any more
don't know jackshit
about myself

whoever myself is
she nodded
looked at his
handed in slippers

the scar
on his left wrist
not your first time then?
she said

touching the scar
guess not  
he said
welcome to Purgatory

she said
he sensed her finger
on his scar
the female touch

he wanted something
whatever it was
something
to hold on to

O
so very much.

There's a purity about
falling snow, Yiska said.
She was standing by
the window of the locked

ward, snow was falling,
trees captured some in
their branches, fields
were blanketed. I stood

next to her, gazing out,
smelling soap, stale
perfume. She stood in
her dressing gown,

open at the neck, holding
a cigarette between two
fingers. See they have
allowed you to dress,

she said, looking at me.
Yes, but still no belt or
shoelaces, I said. Do you
blame them? After your

history of attempted hanging?
No, I guess not. She looked
back at the snow. I can't
even have a bath without

one of the nurses sitting in
there with me, she said, in
case I slit my wrists in the
bath again. Red water.

Something dramatic
about red water.  I sniffed
in her cigarette smoke.
Calming. I can't believe

he jilted me at the altar,
she said after a few moments.
Me standing there in my
white dress like some doll,

and he didn't show. I wouldn't
have jilted you, I said. It
wasn’t you I was going to
marry. But thanks anyway.

Undone. Undo-able. The past
like a locked door to a room
you want to go back to and
change the furniture around.

Her smoke entered my lungs.
I felt it ease me. If it wasn't
for the fact that the ward is
locked, I would be out there

in that whiteness, standing
there, arms outstretched,
mouth open, she said. If I
get low can I borrow the

belt of your dressing gown?
I asked. Only if you distract
the nurse when I bath next
time, she said, gazing at me

with her drugged up eyes.
Sure, each waits until the
other dies. There's a purity
about falling snow, she said,

gazing back at the scene
outside. I stared at her: the
thin white abandoned bride.

Push me
through the avenue of trees

Anne said
I’m ******* with the kids

asking how I lost my leg
and so you pushed

the wheelchair
along the avenue

out of sight of others
away from their childish chatters

and ball games
and cries of want and woes

go on you skinny ****
push push

she muttered
and you pushed on the handles

with all your might
over the dry grass

and she rocked
up and down

and side to side
until she bellowed

this will do small fellow
rest me here

and you let go
of the handles

and puffed for breath
and looked at her

sitting there
in the wheelchair

with her bright eyes
and black hair

and she pulled
your hand towards her

and laid it on her one leg
and said

that’s your reward
for pushing me

and she rubbed your hand
over the red skirt

the soft texture
warming the skin

you watched her hand
holding yours

her other hand holding
the side of the chair

sensing her softness
beneath the hardness

and brashness
but saying nothing

just taking in
the sensations and newness

and she said
just as well Matron

hasn’t seen this
or it’d give her

such a flush
and she laughed

and let go of your hand
and your hand lingered

over her thigh
like a bird set free

waiting to take
to the sky.

Put your finger
on this place
Nima said

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

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

I felt it
coldly warm
young
and smooth
yet slightly rough

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

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

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

she lit up a cigarette
and gave one
to me

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

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

I smiled
no one saw

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

pointing to the LP
by my feet

a Coltrane record
jazz player
I said

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

I need a fix too
need a feed

she sat
and inhaled

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

What have you got there?
Record, LP.

Nima looks at me.
Which one?

Ornette Coleman.
I show her
the record sleeve:
three men standing
in snow.

She nods,
loses interest,
looks away.

Pigeons make noises
about us;
people pass by.

We're in Trafalgar Square.
How are you?
I ask,
sitting on the low wall
around the fountain.

*** starved,
need a fix
and a smoke,
she says.

I can give you
a smoke.

She sits beside me.
There is the sound
of water
from the fountain
behind us;
chat of others
around us.

I give her a cigarette
and light it for her.

She inhales gratefully.
Needed that, said
the bishop
to the good-time girl,
Nima says.

How's your *** life?
She asks
after a few  minutes
of silence.

Non-existent.

Likewise;
I feel like
a ****** nun.  

I watch traffic go by;
a boy and girl
walk by
hand in hand.

Nima watches them.
Bet they're *** life's
up to the top rung,
she says.

How's it
at the hospital?
I ask.

The usual:
stupid quacks,
*** starved nurses
and medication
to help me get off
other drugs.

And is it working?

Don't know;
all I know is
that I am aching
for a fix.

What about a drink?

Not allowed.

Coffee?

You know how
to get to
a girl's heart,
she says sarcastically.
Coke and burger  
and you're on.

I nod my head.

We walk through
the Square
and up towards
Leicester Square
to a burger bar
where we sit
and order both.

If you come visit me
at the hospital next time,
bring me
a packet of smokes.

Sure, if you like.

And they'll look at you
suspiciously.

Why?

They suspect
we had ***
in that cupboard.

We did.

I know
and so do they,
Nima says, smiling.

I picture the scene
some weeks back,
she and I
in a broom cupboard
off the ward
in the semi-dark,
risking it.
Quite a lark.

It was a day trip out
to some seaside place
arranged by the Gospel church
for kids whose parents

were poor
and having got on the coach
you sat in a seat
by the window

and waved at your mother
standing on the pavement
along Rockingham Street
and she waved back

then this girl sat beside you
who you didn’t know
and she smiled and said
all right if I sit here?

sure
you said
and looked back out
at your mother

and waved again
and she waved back
and you thought
who is this girl?

and why is she
sitting next to me?
and she looked at out
the window

and waved to her mother
who started talking
to your mother
and they both waved back

to you and the girl
and you said
do you want to sit
by the window?

and she said
ok yes that’d be nice
and so she got out
and you got out

then she got in
and sat
by the window
and you sat

down beside her
and then the coach
started up
and drove off

and you both waved
at your mothers
until they were out of sight
and the girl turned

and said
I’m Rachel
this is my first time
to the seaside

and you said
you can walk around
with me if you want to
and she said

that’d be good
I don’t know
anyone else here
and so she did

all day
walked around with you
along the beach
and on the sands

making sandcastles
and in the cafe
where they took you all
for a meal

of fish and chips
and she talked
and talked
and smiled  

and laughed  
and once she took
hold of your hand
and it seemed

for a while
that she was happy
at least it seemed so
by the width of her smile.

It's raining
and I see Yiska
in the assembly hall
after lunch

other kids are there
in groups or walking
utterly bored
a few prefects

wander about
on the look out
I go stand beside her
I hate the rain

she says
means we're stuck in
all break then
more boring lessons

the corridors
are packed too
kids passing
back and forth

teachers on
their way places
I say
she stares out

at the rain falling
can see you and talk
but that's it
too many eyes

to do anything else
she says
and the gym's
got kids in it

doing things on the ropes
and mats
keeping fit freaks
I see channels

of rain running
down the window pane
so close yet
so far

I say
meaning?
she says
both here close

but far from doing
anything
I say
she looks around her

at the kids passing
at the groups of girls
talking by the stage
a few boys

swapping cards
by the far off wall
I could have gone
home to lunch

but I didn't want
to get soaked
going home
so I stayed

she says
I recall the time
she took me home
to her place

and her mother
was in a mood
and said little
but I did get to see

Yiska's room
but that was all
just the bed there empty
and her mother calling

where are you
and I want to kiss
her beside me
but can't

what can
a 14 year old boy do?

She stood with you
under the trees

the rain falling hard
the Sunday church service

had been a wet affair
the walk home together

then the bus
to the end of the road

and she said
Is it ever going to stop?

her hair was limp
and hung over

her forehead
her eyes bright

her complexion white
Sure

you said
But I’ve built an ark

in the woods behind
just in case

and she laughed
and took your hand

and said
How any animals

have you got so far?
Couple of woodlice

and beetles
and the odd worm or so

and you smelt
the scent on her

the warmth
of her hand

in yours and you both
under the trees

out of the rain
but the drops fell through

You remember that time
we went to the hay barn

to keep out of the rain
and we were wet through

and took of our clothes
and lay in the hay?

she said
snuggling closer to you

No can’t say I do
you said

and she smack your arm
and said

Oh yes you do
and there was a break out

from the sun
through the branches

as if you say
I’ still here

I’m trying to get through
and she looked at you

and you smiled
and said

I can still smell the hay
and you lying there

beside me
and the damp clothes

hanging over the hay bale
and you and I close

and warmth
and then she put

her finger to her lips
and shushed you

and drops of rain
came onto her head

Let’s keep it kind of holy
she said

and kissed your damp ear
her lips like a blessing

soft skin on soft skin
and she moved away

and the rain eased
and you both moved out

into the woods
pleased.

The holding of young
Nisha your daughter
Is like embracing

A wonderful dream
In a summer’s night;
The smell of her is

Like scented blossoms,
The eyes of her like
Small diamonds in a

Sea of creamy milk.
The feeling of her cheek
Against yours warms you,

Reminds you of your
Mother’s touches, your
Mother’s embraces,

The softness, the warmth
Of love. Time moves you
On, the hands of the

Clock go around and
Around, your mother
Is no more, the fond

Memory of her holds
Fast in your mind, your
Father sits alone

Now, his eyes always
On the door as he
Awaits her return,

Listening for her
Footsteps in the house.
The holding of young

Nisha in your arms
Is a reminder
Of the then and now,

Of the memory
Of your mother and
The moment of warmth

Now, the aliveness,
The being here, the
Eyes close, there is the
Smile and the lone tear.

Reach for the sky
Ingrid said
as you and she
swung on the swings

in Jail Park
your feet pointed skyward
your hands gripping
the metal linked rings

the wooden seat
beneath you
and the sky
was a fine

summery blue
clouds were white
as engine puffed smoke
and you said

my old man
nicked money
from my blue
money box

I never saw him
I just heard him
early this morning
with the rattling

as he used a knife
to eject the coins
Ingrid gaped at you
as she swung

beside you
how much
did you have in there?
she asked

couple of quid
I expect
you said
now it's lighter

and rattles emptier
why did he do that?
she asked
you pushed your feet higher

and bent forward
on the swing's chains
and up you went
reaching for the sun

he needed it
for a packet of cigarettes
I guess
you said

but that's thieving
she said
he'd say
it was liberating

coins for a purpose
of need
you smiled
has a way with words

if not much else
you said
you studied Ingrid
as she swung at your side

her black scuffed shoes
the grey once white socks
the sleeveless
stained flowery dress

which came to the knees
her dark hair
pinned back
with the metal grips

her thin wired spectacles
with her large eyes
staring at you
if I'm ever given money

she said
for birthday
or whatever
my dad takes it

and says I've been
too bad to have it
once he almost broke
my fingers open

to take coins
I was gripping
you tut-tutted
and looked away

as you rose higher
the trees of the park
and bushes
seemed miles

beneath you
and the other kids
on the see-saws
and ropes and sandpit

or on the tall
metal slide
seemed so small
and you remembered the time

Ingrid fell off
the ropes
and grazed her knees
and you helped her up

and helped her hobble
to the first-aid room
near the toilets
and the stern

middle aged woman
in charge there
helped her into the room  
and sat her on a chair

and you stood there staring
made a mess of these knees
ain't you deary
the woman said

best get you cleaned up
and she used cotton wool
and some purple smelly stuff  
to clean away

the stones and dirt
and blood
and as she lifted the leg
she saw a blue green bruise

on Ingrid's thigh
you have been in the wars
the woman said
with a shake

of her blonde
haired head
not wars
you thought

her old man's belt
more like
but never said
and Ingrid cried still

her face red
the woman's plump pink fingers
cleaning the knees
the blood seeping through

the cotton wool
and you
just standing there
giving it

your concerned
and boyish stare.

You ran your finger
along the spine

of books on your bookshelf
and took down

Betting on the Muse
by Charles Bukowski

and opened it
at random

reading the stories
and poem after poem

then having
nothing better to do

you got to page 292  
and a poem titled

the good soul
and laughed out loud

like a dog barking
in dead of night

and your shoulders shook
and your wife said

What’s so funny?
and you said

Oh just words
and she turned over

and back to sleep
and you put down

the book
beside the bed

and turned out
the light

laughing at the poem
inside your head.

Red haired dame
black roots
dark brown eyes
thin lips

but smiles neat
handles the cell phone
between thin fingers
nails chewed

adding tabs
suggesting networks
that work best
thin tattooed arms

small busted
maybe less expensive
but it's better
she says

Johnny smiles
notes the small stud
in her lower lip
knows her cell phones well

that's for sure
he knows
next to nowt
just to switch

on and off
and send a text or two
and call
now and then

but it's Johnny daughter
who's buying
not he
he's just the onlooker

taking notes
for a poem
just like this
mental note as poets do

to catch the essence
before it takes flight
like some rare moth
into the night.

By the maths block
at recess lunch time
Yiska waits for Benny
sunshine's

above her head
Benny said
to meet her here
other kids

are on the sports field
some at ball games
others sitting in groups
talking

some alone
wandering
then he comes
running up

sorry bit late
had to see Mr H
about the cross-country run
later to day

that's all right
she says
feeling relieved
that he has come

running her eyes
over him
sensing her
heartbeat quicken

where do you
want to go?
he asks
what about there

behind the maths block
no one
can see us there
ok

he says
so they walk back
by the fence
by the maths block wall

and there sit
on a low wall
and she kisses him
and he kisses her too

and he embraces her
feels her waist
her slimness
she holds him close

feeling along his spine
feeling warm
sensing her
body glow

they kiss and tongue
and with eyes closed
all seems alive
and hot

then someone bangs
on a window
of the maths block
a teacher stands there

shaking his head
and gesturing
them away
with his hand

so disappointedly
they walk along
by the fence

and out of his sight
and onto the sports field
hand in hand
she keeping

the memory
to hold
and re-dream
that night.

He slurps his soup,
the Dutch monk;
the monk on the stall,

reads
from
the life

of Cromwell.
I see onions swim
in the thin soup;

she invited my hand
to Eve's garden,
to **** amongst

the growth there.
The abbot
beneath

the crucifix,
bites an apple,
juices seep

from his plump chin;
as did she
with me.

I would have-
if I’d known,
if God had shown,

but I went home,
the last chance blown.
Often think

of that evening,
you-
you

as you
always were,
but ****** puffed,

breathing bad,
looking tired,
and I-

as you,
unaware,
death lingered there.

I would have stayed
had I known,
would not

have left you so.
Regrets are negative
and drag one down,

you'd probably say,
no one likes regrets,
let them go.

She has sunshine
in her hair,
like sun
on fields of corn.

I walk there,
brushing my fingers
through the softness.
She welcomes me in,

in I swim
through the waves
of her love;
she is my siren,

I, a drowning ******.
Her lips are as fruit,
I am upon them
as a child greedy

for sustenance;
her moistness
embraces me.
Her thighs are ocean-like,

I bathe as one
needing salvation,
ablutions to a new end,
will this release

the dead me
or mend?

That hospital ward in 87
and you a young
3 year old
with an  infected leg.

You and I sitting
by the window
looking at the scene
and the trains going by
every now and then.

And the nurses
trying to get you
to take the medicine
and you fighting them off
and wiggling
and then after
they got it in your mouth
you let it drip out
of the side of your mouth
with that infamous smile.

That last time
in hospital in 2014,
with something more deadly,
the dark ward,
bed by the window,
you alone, adult now,
I saw you there,
huddled over,
puffed up,
seemingly neglected,
and I went
and rattled
the nurse's cage
about you
and the treatment
or lack of.

That last time we spoke,
mundane questions,
you ill, soft spoken,
fighting to breathe,
no infamous smile,
no last famous words,
just a reluctance
to say good bye
and leave.