Dionne Warwick was singing
you’ll never get to Heaven
if you break my heart

over the small white
transistor radio
under the covers

of the bed after
having made love
to your girlfriend

and you both snuggled there
she running a finger
down your spine

and you kissing
one of her small *******
and the transistor crackled

and the voice on the radio
went in and out of tune
and you said

hush Sweetie Pie
or the others
will hear you

and she put a hand
over her mouth
to stifle the giggles

and the smell of lilac
and sweating bodies
filled your nose

and the singing
made you sway
and you sensed

the flesh warm
and sweet
beneath you

and you listened
for the sound of others
maybe along the hall

or moving in their sleep
and her lips
kissed your ear

and her tongue
reached right in
and you thought that

paradise
that music
the warm flesh

the kisses
and her tongue
easing itself

in and out
of your ear
and the moon lit up

in the corner
of the window
bright and angel like

over the top
smiling glow
and you and she

in the bed
and you opened  
your eyes

and you were alone
it had all been
a dream in your head.

And Reynard said
why is that ****
always looking out
for you
lunch breaks?

we were going out
after lunch
in the school

the sun was out
the field packed
with kids
mostly in groups
girls sitting
on the grass

boys playing
a ball game
or tag games
one or two
chatting up
the older girls

I guess
she likes me
I said

I'm off
to kick ball
you coming?
he said

no I’ll see
what she wants
and meet after
I said

Yiska was
by the fence
arms folded
staring at me

thought you
weren't coming
she said
been waiting ages

had lunch
and got talking
with my friend
I said

she raised her brows
what's he like?
she asked
nodding towards
Reynard's
departing back

he's ok
he's funny
I said

we walked up
the field
looks moody
she said

who?

him

no he's ok

she yakked
about her mother
and her mother's
bad moods
and how she'd
rowed with her
before school

what about?
I asked

don't ask

I already have

she sighed
usual stuff
my untidy room
my having
my record player
too loud
playing Elvis
instead of her
classical stuff

we reached
the far end
of the field
and looked back
towards school

I dreamed of you
last night
I said

did you?

no
you wouldn't
let me

she giggled
no really?

I nodded

what did we do?
did we kiss
and such?

no not
over much

(I hadn't dreamed
of her at all
I dreamed
of Hayley Mills
and some
desert island
and fish cooking
over an open fire)

what then?
she said

I woke up
and you
had gone

she frowned
and took my hand
and walked back
towards school

her warm hand
in mine
her pulse
tickling me
as we walked

and then
she spoilt it all
and talked.

My old man
was always
neat and tidy.  

Brylcreemed hair
(what was left),
smart suit,
shiny shoes,
brown brogues,
well trimmed moustache,
staring eyes.

Get your best shirt
and trousers on,
we're going to see
this new Jeff Chandler film,
Western, and put on
that bow-tie I bought you
and make sure
your shoes are shiny,
he said.

I went and got changed
and put on the bow-tie
he bought(how I hated
that thing) and shoes
buffed to a shine of sorts,
short trousers,
the next to best,
and I was ready,
kissing mother
on the way out.

We went in the cinema
a 1/3 of the way through
the first feature,
sat in the seats,
his eyes fixed
on the screen,
I looking around
to see who was in
and who was who.  

I looked at him
beside me;
the neat moustache,
well trimmed,
the eyes watching
the screen,
a cigarette between lips,
smoke rising.

I recalled the time
at another cinema,
another film,
another Western,
and we were ¾
the way through,
when he ups
and leaves
in a sudden rush.

I watched the screen
and chewed the popcorn,
thinking the old man
had gone to the bog,
an adult thing
or so I thought.

Then 5 minutes after
a young usherette
came and found me
and said:
your father's with the medics
in the foyer,
he had a choking fit.

Poor guy,
I thought,
him sat there
blue and white,
not having had a ****.

It was mid morning
and the sun was warm
and Anne was in
her wheelchair
her stump visible
at the hem
of her red shirt

what's it do for you?
she asked me

what?

this sunshine
and warmth?

not much
I said

it should
it should make you
want to jump up
and dance around
shouting out
to the sun god
she said

you couldn't dance
with your one leg
I said

up you Kid
she said
glaring at me
up you as far
as it will go

well you couldn't
could you
I said
I mean
I would help you
if you wanted to
get up and dance
but on your own
you'd have a job

she sighed
if I want to
****** get up
and dance I will
she said

she heaved herself
out of the chair
and stood on
her one leg
and began to
hop about

until she fell over
and lay
on her back
staring
at the sky

how was that
for a fecking
dance then?
she said

a nursing nun
came walking
quickly over to us

get me up Kid
before the penguin
gets here

I helped her up
the best I could
but she
was heavier than I
and the nun reached us
just as Anne
was hauling
herself up
by holding
onto my body

what were you doing?
the nun asked

dancing
what's it look like?
Anne said

the nun helped
Anne back
into her wheelchair
and stood there
gazing at her

you're so rude Anne
the nun said
do you know
how many
complaints
there have been
about you?

who's counting
Anne said

it was my fault
I said
I asked her
to show me
how she danced

Anne looked
at me

the nun raised
an eyebrow
well you
should know better
Benedict
the nun said
then she walked off

you didn’t have
to lie for me
Anne said
but thanks
anyway Kid

she pulled her skirt
over her stump
and I
was pleased
by what I did.

Janice walked back with you
from Harper Road
where you’d been shopping
for your mother

for sugar
in a blue paper bag
and flour and eggs
and other items

on the list
and Janice
with her red beret
and red dress said

what was the book
you bought
in the newsagents
the other day?

it’s about Robin Hood
you said
and his Merry Men
and I’m half way

through it already
was he for real?
she asked
I guess so

you said
I’ve seen programmes
about him on TV
and Maid Marian

who’s she?
Janice asked
Robin’s girlfriend
you said

and sometimes
in the boring bits
of the programme
they kiss and such

but I like
the fighting parts best
with swords
and bows

and arrows
you added
my gran said
violence solves nothing

Janice said
as you both walked
into the Square
and she said

she heard it some place
that those who live
by the sword
die by the sword

but I don’t **** anyone
you said
I just pretend
to sword fight

the bad knights
or sometimes fire
my bow and arrow
at the pram shed door

imagining it’s the drawbridge
of the bad knight’s castle
o I see
Janice said

sounds fun
you can be
my Maid Marian
if you want

you said
so long as you leave out
the kissing bits
she stopped

and looked at you
don’t you like kissing me?
she said
you looked at her

in her red beret
and red dress
and white socks
and brown sandals

her hands holding
the bag of shopping
from side to side
sure I do

you said
if it’s ok for Robin
then I guess
it can’t be too bad

good
she said
can I use
your sword too

and help fight
the bad knights?
you nodded
and walked on

and she followed
but don’t tell Gran
Janice said
or she’ll tan my backside

or so she said
the other week
don’t worry
I won’t say a word

you said
and sure
you can use
my other sword

Maid Marian does
on TV
so guess
you can too

and that was that
and you climbed
the stairs in silence
to your mother’s flat.

It was still there
the old outhouse
on the edge
of the woods,

he saw, making
his way around it,
his eyes scanning
each part, each

memory soaked
into the wood
grown old.
He opened the door

and peered in.
The smell faded
through lack of use.
Cobwebs still hung there,

spiders raced
across the ground.
No other sound.
Memories stirred.

He and she had ***
here once; door locked
against the world,
against the nosey neighbours,

her parents, the night wind
and bright moon’s glow.
He can smell her scent still,
that smell she had,

fresh apples and hay.
He walked about
the small space,
his footsteps moved

over where once they lay.
Not planned, out of the passion
of that meeting, kissing
and holding, young flesh

stirred and the need
to be satisfied.
He leaned down
and put his fingers

across the ground,
rubbed where once
her buttocks rested,
her legs wide, her eyes

in shade of the semi dark,
her body captured
his juices in the passion’s tide.
Long since gone

she to some other place
that one night of ***
ingrained in his mind
and on the ground

and outhouse walls of wood.
He’d love to see her
here again and **** her
once more if he could.

You met Janice
going to Baldly's groceries
to get a list of goods
for your mother

how goes it?
you asked
Gran tanned
my backside yesterday

for going
on the bomb site
when she had told me
not to

Janice said
sorry I got
you into trouble
you said

not your fault
I’m responsible
for my own actions
she said

I knew Gran
had told me
not to go
but I chose

to disobey
so paid the price
guess she's annoyed
with me too

you said
I didn't say
who was with me
she said

how did she find out ?
a neighbour saw me
and told her
I was on a bomb site

with other kids
and that was it
where you going?
you asked

got to buy
some cereals
for breakfast
she said
going to Baldly's groceries

but not to get any
with those
free toys inside
why's that?

Gran said it's a gimmick
how about going
to the cinema
this afternoon?

you asked
can't
she said
not allowed

after yesterday
she said
shame
you said

got a good western on
and the good guy
has two guns
and has a neat way

of going for his guns
which I want to copy
and practice
she looked sad

I'd liked to
she said
but maybe
another time

when I'm out
of the dog house
sorry
about the trouble

I've landed you in
you said
my fault
mea culpa

as they say
in mass
mea culpa ?
you said

it means my fault
in Latin
she said
I got my backside tanned

once for peeing
in my toy box
you said
she looked shocked

peed in your toy box?
yes I was trying
to impress a cousin
but he told on me

and that was it
I never told
on you yesterday
she said

thank you
you said
she kissed your cheek
best get on

with the shopping
she said
ok
you said

and so she went
in Baldy's with you
and did the shopping
and afterwards

you walked back
your separate ways
after a few words of farewell
and a wave of hands

hoping to see her
again sometime
after her punishment
for the petty crime.

He was not one
For the big words
Or the grand gestures
Preferring instead

To keep it plain and simple
And connect with the mind and heart
Of the ordinary person
In the home or street.

He was not one
For the compound lie
Or double-dealing
Or pretend to have feeling

When the touch was cold
He would much rather
Open up the box
Of truth and fact

And lay it out
With the wordsmith’s tool
Upon the page
Of black and white

And with the final dot
End his fine write.

Sophia sorts through
her parents' room;
they're out for the day,
some Polish old comrades

meeting of her father's,
old war pals. She opens up
the old wardrobe, sorts
through things, takes out

her mother's old dresses
and some new ones, puts
them on the bed. She likes
a red one, old but well kept.

She ponders, she decides
to try it on. She undresses
from her own jeans and top
and puts on the old red dress

and looks at herself in the
wardrobe mirror. Her mother
must have been her size back
then, it fits like it was made

for her. She does a twirl, looks
back at her ***, her thighs,
turns to the front and stares
at her *******. She doesn't

remember her mother wearing
the dress, not a dress she recalls
her mother wearing at all. She
looks down, it comes just below

the knees, although she's taller
than her mother, so it would
come lower on her mother.
She embraces herself as if

Benedict were there behind her
putting his arms around her
and breathing on her neck.
She stares at herself in the mirror;

stares at her full length. She
smells the material. It smells
of stale perfume, but not horrible
or clammy. She walks around

the room in it; looks at herself
in the mirror across the room.
She'd ask her mother if she could
borrow it, but then she'd have to

say she'd been in her mother's wardrobe
and that would cause hell with her
father and she didn't want that. She
take off the dress and stands there

in her bra and *******, and puts the
dress back on the hanger, and puts
it back with the other dresses where
she found it the wardrobe, in the right

place, and pushes the clothes back as
far as shes can recall in the order they
were, and closes the wardrobe door.
She dresses back in her jeans and top.

She pauses by the bed. The crucifix over
the bed. The Crucified staring down
pityingly. She touches the bed with her
fingers. She'd like to bring Benedict here;

make love here. But not after last time
in her room and her parents came back
after and that was too close. And some
neighbour had split on her and said

they'd seen young man and her come
here while her parents were out and her
father gave her the third degree over it.
Her father said she can only bring the

boy when they were home. Couldn't bring
Benedict back for *** while they were
downstairs sitting watching TV and
drinking their wine and such, and not

in her parent's bed, not beneath the
Crucified, except in her blonde haired head.

There is light
Ingrid sees
through curtains

of her room
as she lays
in her bed

she hears rows
raised voices
her father

bellowing
her brother
answering

her mother
crying out
Ingrid bites

at her lip
what's up now?
She wonders

sitting up
anxiously
her brother

shouting back
her father
barking words

she gets up
out of bed
listens out

at the door
of her room
don't go Tom

please don't go
her mother
pleads loudly

to her son
a door slams
then silence

whimpering
is then heard
her mother

in the hall
her father
swearing loud

which echo
in Ingrid's
ears and mind

she creeps back
to her bed
snuggles down

like a mole
under brown
thick blankets

hopes to God
her father
won't come in

taking it out
on young she
his daughter

but she knows
usually
that he does

she just waits
laying there
in her bed

for the harsh
bitter hurtful
bee-like buzz.

There is You,
my son, and You.

The You that died;
the You which we see
on rising
in photographs on walls
or framed or there
by the window;
the You staring back at us
from our mobile phones.

There's the You I saw
brought into the world
pink and small
and wanting to feed
and latch on
for the liquid food.

The You growing up
from baby to toddler,
mischievous, but loving.

The You growing
into manhood,
stoic and quiet
and brave, going about
in your own way
to climb many a mountain
of adversity
and reaching the top
and over it
and quietly smile
and unseen
in a corner, sit.

There is the You
of quiet talk,
of gentle words;
You of soft
under the breath swearing,
if the referee
had got it wrong.

There was the You who
became ill so suddenly;
the You who was let down
by medical professionals;
the You we loved,
the You whose heart
flat-lined and died.

There is You,
my son, and You.

The You who was taken
and the You whom we feel
around us still,
touching;
walking by
out of the corner
of our red rimmed eye.

There she is
in the field
Jane waving

to the birds
in the sky
above us

wave she says
so I wave
to the rooks

overhead
then they've gone
out of sight

I watch her
her hair free
her eyes bright

this is it
she says loud
arms outstretched

palms open
this is art
God's own art

she utters
she is art
to my eyes

the beauty
of her form
her soft voice

uttering
we are here
we're alive

this moment
I love her
her being

her hands clap
birds fly out
from hedgerows

winging up
we need wings
she tells me

***** her arms
I kiss her
in my mind

embrace her
in my dreams
let us fly

she calls out
I follow
arms flapping

don't know why.

And there was Mame
posed between two Arabs
leaning against a camel

on a Moroccan beach
winding up her watch
clothed in a red and white

swim suit
and Johnny had said
You could’ve had her mate

the other night
she was yours
for the taking

(*** you thought he meant)
others have said
they’ve had her

and that settled the matter
and you just shrugged
and said

It never happened
it wasn’t that type of thing
(kissing and embracing

beneath a bright moon maybe)
but not what he
or others may have thought

as they saw that you and she
had gone off into the night
hand in hand

Oh you could have ridden her home
Johnny said
but it never entered your head

that night
with its stars and moon
and she beside you

listening to the Mediterranean Sea
**** the shores of the beach
laying on your backs

smoking and watching
the smoke rise
talking of home

and another land
and the future’s hold
and her hopes

and your wishes
and looking back
you know your life

turned out different  
wondering if her hopes and wishes
of the then

turned out right
or floated lifeless
like dead fishes.

Are you in there?
Miryam said
through the canvas
of the tent

no
you replied
I'm out
you are there

she said
and unzipped the zip
and poked her head
in the gap

you were lying there
in your sleeping bag
gazing at her red
fuzzing hair

and large eyes
where's your friend?
she asked
gone for a shower

you said
she unzipped all down
and came in the tent
walking on her knees

like Toulouse Lautrec
in a wig
and lay down beside you  
how long before he's back?

no idea
you said
have we time for ***?
risky

you said
sometimes risky
is enjoyable
she said softly

running her hand
down the outline
of your leg
not when an ex-army guy

comes in
and see his sleeping partner
******* some red head
in his tent

you said
she pouted her lips
spoilsport
she said

in your ear
yes I guess so
you said
what we doing today?

she asked
we're moving
onto Malaga apparently
the coach leaves at 9.30

she looked
at her wrist watch
gives us an hour
she said

in a whispering voice
gives me an hour
to get showered
and dressed

and breakfasted
and such
you said
she lay back beside you

on the sleeping bag
isn't Malaga
where Picasso was born?
yes that's right

you said
do you like his work?
she asked
sure

it makes me
want to see it again
and again
it does?

she said
as if I had said
I like to wear
ladies's underwear

don't you find his work
kind of odd?
she said
that's what I like about it

it breaks out
of that prison
which people have put
around art

as if only
such and such
can be art
she put her lips

on your cheek
wet and warm
don't I tempt you at all?
not one little bit?

she walked her fingers
down your leg
and moved them
towards your groin

not about 6ins worth?
she said sexually
how did we get
from Picasso

to you finger walking
on my *****?
all is art you said
she whispered

you've left the zip unzipped
the ex-army guy said
poking his head
in the gap

what's she doing in here?
he said
just popped in
to see how he is

Miryam said
looking at the guy
with his short
back and sides haircut

and smelling
of shampoo and soap
well now you've seen
you can go

he said
can't he and I
have *** first​​?
she said

in her imitation
Monroe voice
no you can't
he said

go elsewhere
if you must do
such things
and he sat back

on his haunches
and stared at her
his arms folded
Ok

she said
and kissed your cheek
and walked on her knees
out of the tent

and stood up
and looked in
before the ex-army guy
could zip back up

shame
she said
we could have had
a *******

go away
he said
before I slap your backside
promises promises

Miryam said
and walked off
towards her tent
across the camp base field

girls huh?
you said
but he didn't reply
he just began packing

his stuff into his suitcase
ready for the next move
and so you closed your eyes
and imagined her

there beside you again
listening
to the patter patter
of the Spanish rain.

And Christina
hadn't seen Benedict
on the sports field
the day before

and school without
seeing him
was a long haul
of boredom

and frustration
and even
to go down
school passageways

between lessons
and not get
a peek of him
was stomach churning

with other girls
on about this
and that
and she only

wanting a peek
of him
to carry home with her
to hug and hold

in her bedroom
dreams
but today
in lunch recess

he was there
on the sports field
with that fiend of his
and she thought

he hadn't seen her
and he was wandering
the field with his friend
and they were laughing

and she so wanted
for him to turn
and see her
sitting there

on the grass
with a bunch of girls
and them laughing
and giggling

about matters
when he turned
and saw her
and she felt

her whole being
explode inside
and a rush
of feelings

flooded her
so that she was sure
she'd peed herself
with it all

and he came over
and said
didn't see you there
come let's go

for a walk and
so she got up
unsure if her legs
would hold her

what with the body
having exploded
like it had
and she went with him

and he lingered
near her
and their hands
were near

and she didn't want
to seem forward
and hold his hand
but deep inside

she wanted
to hold his hand
and kiss it
and squeeze it

and take it home
with her
but she just
let it hang there

near his
and he spoke
of being off
the day before

through illness
and that
he was ok today
and he laughed

and said
did you miss me?
and she said no
and laughed too

but god the words
clung to the roof
of her mouth
and she had to

push them out
and he said
he thought of her
laying there

unwell in his bed
and she thought
how she'd have
hugged him

had she been there
how she would have
sweated the illness
out of him

but she didn't say it
but smiled
and felt her insides
turning and turning

and he said
he dreamed of her
and she said
what did we do?

and he said
sure I cant' say
and blushed
and she touched

his hand as they
came to the fence
around the field
and it was electrifying

and her heart
seemed to thump itself
against her ***
and O how hot

it felt being there
she feeling all
so in love
and a slight wind

moved his quiff
of brown hair.

Lizbeth dressed
in her favourite
short dress

knowing her mother
would disapprove
and would lead

to her mother's
usual moans about
looking like a ****

like one of those dancers
on that TV pop music
programme

and what would
the neighbours think?
Lizbeth stared at herself

in the full length mirror
looking at red hair
her freckled skin

which she loathed
and how the dress
was getting tight

about her
how it showed her
shapely figure

which she did like
and her mother didn't
and thought of Benedict

at home in
his village cottage
with his parents

and siblings
and she hoping
to cycle out

to see him
and maybe
if she was lucky

get him
to get down to it
-she had tried

many times before
but with no success
- even in the small church

where no one
ever visited
he wouldn’t get down

to having ***
saying it wasn't
the place

and then another time
in his bedroom
where he took her

to show her
his animals bones
and bird eggs

and fossils
in broken pieces
of chalk

and it was there
behind them
his double bed

already for them
but no
she was till a ******

and even here
in her own bedroom
she brought him once

and still he wouldn't
have it
even though she'd

almost stripped off
her clothes for him
O how boring

he could be
and she gagging for it
so much so

that she was tempted
to go it alone-
as seen in

the *** book
a girl at school
had lent her-

but no
she wanted Benedict
no other boy

just him
and down stairs
she heard her mother

singing along
to the radio
some classical

music stuff
her mother's voice
croaking above

the music
like an unhappy frog
she lifted

the short dress
by the hem
to see how short

it could get
before her mother
would take it away

from her
and give it
to another

she raised it so
she could just
about see her

white underwear
and smiled
and said

to herself
there
yes there.

They each shared
the same mother
shared the same loss of her

when the time came
gave the same
last wave  

when she was
driven off
to crematorium

and then grave
but each had
their own mother

whom they shared
with no other
one with whom

they shared  
a particular time
or place

sitting quietly
face to face
sharing a secret

or confessing
a deed done
or just

the mother to child meeting
with just the two
at some given time

at some particular place
some given year
to share a problem

or tears or anxieties
or deeper fears
and knowing

she would listen
as only mother’s can
or do

sharing the time and love
with each particular
person called you

whether daughter or son
she shared
her equal love and time

and yet each knew her
each thought
they knew her best

and carried away
their own best times
in her company

without the rest
their own moments shared
but deep down

they knew
she had her love for each
and each was equal

to the rest
for she never had
a favourite

nor considered
any one the best
so they all shared

the same mother
in the end
all grieved her going

each in their own way
hoping or believing
they would share her

once again
some better place
some future day.

The RICKARD'S coach arrived at the seafront the sight of the sea and waves and seagulls in flight and sounds of sea and gulls and waves on shore and Janice waited in the coach seat beside Benedict both gazing out at the view listening to the gospellers talking about the day and the plans ahead and one of them with one eye said not to wander off but to stay with the group and before we get off the coach make sure you are with someone it's easy to get lost on your own so stay with some one all day or a group of others he said his voice a drone to Benedict who looked at the sea and the gulls and also there is a fairground to visit One Eye said but stay with a person and do not wander off with anyone you do not know and the rides are paid for so no need to pay any money out he said the children on the coach buzzed like bees with excitement but Benedict sat and watched the beach the families the ice cream van the fish and chip shop the shop selling buckets and spades and whirly things that go around and around in the wind and so on but before we leave the coach we need to say a prayer and thank God for this day and for the weather and the sunshine and for the gospel church members who paid towards this day out for you One Eye said there was a silence and lowering of heads and closing of eyes and One Eye said a prayer and was ended with a loud AMEN which echoed the coach and maybe along the beach Benedict  waited until the the kids got off the coach one by one then he and Janice moved down the aisle as One Eye and another gospeller counted them off Janice straightened her red beret and Benedict followed her out onto the seafront pavement and sniffed the air and listened to the sounds of sea and gulls stay together a gospeller said to them we will Janice said excitedly taking hold of Benedict’s hand and squeezing it where can we go? she asked the fairground rides are over there the gospeller said pointing over to the side and we will meet for lunch at one pm meet here I’ve told the others and we will keep an eye out for you ok Janice said Benedict and she walked towards the fairground where there was a loud sound of machines going around and voices and screams and laughter and shouts they went in and walked around the various rides and stalls and Benedict said where shall we start? I don't know Janice said there is so much to go on and do but Benedict had his eye on the motorbike rides where small motorbikes could be ridden around a circular track I’m going on that he said looks a bit scary Janice said releasing his hand wait here for me then or ride on something else less scary he told her no I’ll stay with you she said and followed him onto the side of the track where a man was organizing the rides and kids want to ride on the back or on your own? the man said to Janice who looked uncertain I’ll ride behind him she told the man and climbed on the back of the motorbike Benedict was sitting on she put her arms around Benedict’s waist and held on tight then they were off around the track and at a given speed and around and around they went Benedict over taking other kids on motorbikes and now and then being overtaken by others then it was over and the time set finished and they got off and went on a number of other rides and stalls and kept together until it was nearly one pm and a gospeller said got to meet for lunch now and they followed the other kids back to the coach and waited until all had arrived and then they set off for a restaurant where a meal had been organised by the gospel church in advance and they all sat down and Benedict and Janice sat in two seats together and Janice said that was good I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years  and that motorbike ride was scary but I did enjoyed it after all and Benedict let her talk because she was good at it and he watched her how her red beret moved as she turned or shook her head in her excitement and her eyes bright as stars and her hands clapped and her fingers moved and he just listened smiling and nodding and he said maybe we can sit on the beach after lunch or go in the sea and paddle and see if there are any ***** or dead fish left by the tide O she said will there be? and will the ***** bite? and I best go to the loo as I think I’ll wee myself with excitement other wise and she walked across to one of the gospellers and asked and they pointed to a door at the back and Benedict watched her go and listened to the other kids and people around talking and laughing and thought of home in London and wondered what his mother was doing and should he take her back a gift out of the money she gave him if there was a shop that sold things he could buy he would if he could find something he thought she might like just as Janice returned a waitress brought the meals around and laid them on the table in front of them fish and chips O good Janice  said I like them I wonder if they caught the fish around here in this sea do you think they did Benny? do you? I expect so Benedict said although he didn't know and hadn't thought of where the fish had come from apart from the sea some place he liked it when she asked him questions as if he knew everything when he knew he didn't but it made him feel good and he looked at her and felt happy her being there with her red beret and fair hair and she like him was eight years old or more and she living with her gran and he not knowing what happened to her mum and dad and never asked thinking it best not to ask and he living with his parents and sister and brother in London and so different from the seaside with the sounds and smells so different and fresh and she talked of the beach and maybe paddling if they went in the sea he with her in case she slipped in and drowned and she didn't want to do that and of course he would he said and they ate the fish and chips and he looked out at the sea over the way and sensed her near him and was enjoying the seaside day.

These arms
would love
to hold you
close again.

These hands
would wish
to bless
above your brow,
through mist,
somehow.

Theses lips want
to kiss your forehead
as they did
before you died.

These eyes want
to collect the tears
they've shed
and swim to you
through time's hold.  

These words,
my son, these words,
seem too fragile
for their task,
too frail to convey
the love I have,
hope they get to you,
not fail.

She knows she’s in
the sepia photograph
but doesn’t remember why
or who the others are

or why she dressed
as she did back then
or why there was a dog there
at the front

she keeps the photograph
tucked between
the pages
of the black Bible

some clergy gave her
and a dark secret
she was forbidden to tell
and sometimes

that short woman
with the Mongolian features
steals it to gawk at
then she has to go get it back

sometimes violently
which brings the nurses running
with their rough hands
and strait jackets

or that skinny woman
who always stares
takes hold of it
and stares at it

pointing to the various faces
of the males and females
and at the dog
and smiles and wets herself

and then laughs loudly
which causes
the other inmates
to bellow or laugh

or cry or scream
bringing the nurses trotting
with their what’s going on?
or what’s all this then?

she holds the photograph
to her ***** when she can
or tries to remember
who they all are

staring back at her
including herself
and when the quacks
question her

about the photo
as to who is who
or why she has kept it
she doesn’t have a clue

and one said
she ought not to have it
as it disturbed her
but a nice nurse

(and there were some) said
o no doctor she needs that
there will be hell to pay
if she doesn’t have it

tucked between the pages
of the Good Book
she kisses herself some days
talks to one or two

of the others there
but who they were
or to whom she speaks
she doesn’t know

and on cold wintery days
she looks toward the sun
for a message
or a warming glow.

These things are sent to try us,
Gran said, her thumb
Moving itself over
The well-worn beads
Of her dark wood rosary;
Her eyes taking in the crucifix
On the wall above her bed.
You sat watching her thumb
Moving its way back and forth
Over the round black beads,
Her arthritic fingers clutching
Blue blankets and white sheet.
Never tries us beyond our strength,
She added, the strained features
Mingling with the yellow taint
Of wrinkled skin. You wondered
Who sent the things to try her,
Whose bounty of gifts left
Small tears wedged in the corners
Of her eyes, pushed out words
Between harsh sighs.

The whole thing
about ***
Sophia said

is that it's so
liberating
it takes one
on a journey
of discovery
about oneself
and another

I watched her
brushing her hair
she was still in
her dressing gown

I sat on her bed
waiting for her
to get ready
to go out
after the ***
and her shower

I guess so
I said

light from a window
lit her up
with sunlight

she smelt
of bath oils

I had bathed after her
and I was dressed
and ready

the opening up
the release
of part of one
she said
the joining
with another

a Beethoven sonata
was playing
from her Hi-Fi

I liked it
it opened up
areas inside my head
mood changed me

of course animals
have *** more often
and they don't analyse
about it
I said

ah but we're
not animals
she said
least not all
there is that
part of us
which allows us
to analyse even
a good ****
she said

the word hung
in the air above
her head
like some
dark bird of fate

I gazed at her
brushing her hair
there her hand
and brush
her hair

I wanted
to have her
once more
or get out of there.

Carole was one
of the shortest girls
in class;
she had blonde

short cropped hair
and sat next to Miss Pretty,
and was always yakking,
always giving her opinion

on  something or other,
her voice was high
( as if someone had
grabbed her ****

Reynard said),
her eyes blue,
her compact body
(seen from behind)

was clothed in the cardigan
and skirt and blouse
of the uniform of the school.
You watched her

as she put a hand
to the side of her mouth
and whispered to Miss Pretty.
Her thin small hand

hid her mouth;
just the whispering sound
hung on the air.
Can you be quiet, Carole,

Miss Graham, the teacher said.
Reynard whispered,
fancy being married to her;
she'd wear your ears away,

with her non-stop tongue.
And looked at her backside,
imagine that lying next
to you in bed each morning,

he added.
You tried not to,
imagine that is,
not that at least,

Miss Pretty maybe,
you thought,
taking in her thin frame
beside short ***  Carole

sitting next to her.
Miss Graham put on
the Mozart LP
on the record player

and the class sat
bemused or bored,
except Miss Pretty
whose head nodded slowly,

whose foot tapped
a silent beat
and shorty Carole
whose mouth was sealed,

arms crossed,
elbows on the desk,
sat with eyes fixed
on the record player.

While Reynard muttered comments
about both the girls,
debating in whispered voice,
who had the biggest backside,

or smallest *******,
who he would least like
to kiss, while you,
wondering how long

it took for the Mozart guy
to compose the stuff,
noticing Miss Pretty's
pointing finger

conducting,
some imagined orchestra,
her long wrist moving
like a moving swan,

her head to one side,
stirring momentarily,
an odd feeling within you,
which you had to hide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met her in a field
beyond her house
during summer recess
that last one

before you both left
school for good
you'd walked
from the big wooden gate

by hedgerows
where birds sang
and flew out
pass you

sky blue
as if Monet
had been at work
my mother thinks

we've been doing things
she said
things?
you said

you know what I mean
she said
a steam train
passed by

over by the far hedge
we have
you said
I know and you know

but I don't want her
thinking we have
Judy said
you frowned

the white
and grey smoke
from the train
puffed

into the sky
so it's a kind of
knowledge thing?
you said

who's to know
and who isn't?
some people matter
she said

especially her
I’ll never hear
the last of it
if she thinks

we have
the grass was dry
and the earth hard
your shoes had seen better days

so we're here
in a field
where she could
possibly see us

and you're worrying
that she thinks
we have done things?
Judy sighed

and looked back
at the house
surrounded by fields
she's probably watching now

she said
following our movement
you looked back too
hands in the pockets

of your blue jeans
has she binoculars?
you said
not that I know

Judy said
doesn't matter
she has eyes
like a hawk

how are you
going to convince
we haven’t
done things?

you asked
she looked away
from the house
and sat on the grass

with you following
she sat cross legged
pulling the skirt
over her knees

spoilsport
you said
shouldn't look
didn't get a chance

too slow
she said
getting old
you smiled

I’m 14 like you
if that's too old
I'm Monet's aunt
she laughed

this isn't
solving the problem
she said
there isn't a problem

you said
just a matter
of perception
or not

as the case
is meant to be
what do you mean?
she said

your mother thinks
we have
and we have
yet you want her

not to think that
you replied
yes that's right
Judy said

maybe she wants
to think that
you said
why should she?

Judy asked
maybe she doesn't trust me
you said
she doesn't

Judy said
but she should trust me
you nodded
I see what you mean

so she should trust you
not to do such things
even when you have?
you said

it's the thought
that counts
she said
she put her hands

each side of her
on the grass
you could see
her cleavage

where her
blouse buttons
gave a little
yes

you said
it's the thought
that counts
and the thoughts

hung around
your head
wishing it
had not been

a hay barn
but a cosy
warm bed
instead.

I miss your smile,
your laughter,
the chuckle you had,
the way your whole body
colluded with the laugh.

I miss your step,
the way you walked,
the soft spoken talk,
the humour, the dry jokes,
that I miss deeply,
the memory chokes.

I miss your look,
that gaze,
the big eyed stare,
that look
that seemed to say:
I care.

I miss you
for not being here,
miss your presence
in a room,
the chair vacant
where you once sat,
the photographs of you
looking back,
saying nothing,
looking far away,
nothing more to say.

I miss the whole of you,
not just bits and pieces,
not just this or that,
not just your tee shirts
or black hat.

I miss you
and wait for answers
that may never come,
never find the real reason why
someone ****** up
or why you had to die.

Is this you in the wedding
Photograph? Yes. St Mark’s church.
1951. Late June.
Your hair looks nice, and the dress

Looks fine. Not mine. It was the
One my mother wore and her
Mother before her. A white
Handed down family gift

For marriages that end in
Doom. Your husband looks dapper
Hanging onto your arm like
Grim death. Don’t waste you breath on

Him he’s gone now. Was he no
Good? He thought he was the dog’s
Dinner but he was the pig’s
Backside and no mistake. Gone

You say? Dead? Long since and no
Regrets. Why keep the photo
If it was bad? To remind
Me of that fateful day and

His thin sickly smile. Why so?
Why keep it thus? To remind
Me of his premature death,
The grimfaced miserable cuss.

(Poem composed in 2008.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

into the passageway
and said
here feel my thigh
go on

have a feel
and she grabbed
your hand
and made you

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

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

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

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

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

as Monica uttered
loud moans
and you sensed
the dampness

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

but knew
it would
like passing time
soon go.

Anne stands
on crutches
in the queue

to be weighed
by a nun
in the home

for sick kids
Skinny Kid
she whispers

to the boy
just in front
if I win

the choc bar
I'll share it
just with you

if you win
who will you
share it with?

you of course
he replies
in soft voice

other kids
up the front
fail to put

on more weight
so don't win
the choc bar

it's you now
Benedict
a nun says

Skinny Kid
stands steady
on the scales

you've put on
5 ounces
she tells him

he gets off
of the scales
and Anne

crutches up
on one leg
her stump swings

underneath
her red dress
steady now

the nun says
Anne stands
as steady

as she can
you've put on
7 ounces

the nun says
so you win
the choc bar

Anne smiles
and crutches
herself off

of the scales
the nun puts
the choc bar

in Anne's
dress pocket
let's go Kid

Anne says
and they go
out the back

on the lawn
she crutching
to the far

white table
and white chairs
with the Kid

beside her
making sure
she's ok

he pulls out
a white chair
and she sits

the Kid sits
beside her
and they share

the choc bar
between them
12 ounces

gained in weight
between them.

Putting the world
to rights,
I expect.

She, Mrs Clark,
and Old Ma Collins
are like an outpost

of the United Nations.
They’d put
the world to rights

all right. No one else
would get a word in
edgeways. Had a bloke

like that in the army.
He could talk the hind leg
off a donkey. Bit simple

he was, but he did half talk.
Perkins he was called.
Ronald Perkins.

Lost a leg he did,
but didn’t stop him talking.
Reckon if he lost his head

he’d still manage
to chat away
to himself somehow.

Mrs Dryden
met Benedict
by the train station;
she’d told her husband

she was off
the weekend
seeing friends,
in London

take in a show,
which one
she didn’t know.  
Benedict saw her coming,

dressed to the nines,
hair done, new shoes
and coat and scarf,
to keep the cold out,

about her throat.
They boarded the train,
took seats together,
aware of others,

but none they knew.
They conversed,
held hands, kissed
now and then

when none was looking.
London was all bright lights
and noise and rush
and they booked a room

in a back street hotel
where they made love,
took a bath, and then went out.
The show was good.

The meal in the restaurant
was fine and they spent time
wandering the streets
looking in shop windows

on the back
to the cheap hotel.
She talked of her husband,
her kids, and how

her husband ******* girls
behind her back,
how he lied,
gave ******* talk,

imagined himself
some Casanova.
Benedict listened,
spoke of his art,

talked of books,
ideas of philosophy.
She put her hand
over his abdomen,

rubbed, rose higher
to his chest, then lower.
In the dark room,
neon lights

flashed off and on,
her face came
and went, her *******
captured coloured

in the flashing lights.
They made love again
and again. Outside was
a gun shot quite near.

Voices calling. Some
one laughed. After the ***
and conversation,
after putting coins

in the heater,
they bathed.

They'll say that God had need of him
Before his time,
That angels sought his company

For beauty's sake
In mind or soul,
That stars will shine far brighter

In the night of all their dread
Now he's dead at 29 years old,
And they must feel the cold

Of his departure all the more,
Like one whose ship has left the shore
For far off places,

They must have his face in mind
To keep as photograph,
In silver frame,

Until such time
That he and they
Are once again in arm's fond hold

And all the love returns
To cease the cold
And lonely days of aching grief.

Yochana
sitting next
to the blonde

Angela
is in front
of the class

at the back
of the class
Reynard R

sits with me
while Miss G
is yakking

about Bach
his music
walking slow

between rows
peering deep
through her

thick lens specks
Yochana
looks at me

and mouths words
do not kiss
me again

I smile back
and mouth words
it was good

she stares back
unsmiling
while Miss G

stops yakking
glares at me
then looks at

Yochana
this lesson
is on Bach

and music
Miss G says
not ***-tat

Yochana
blushes red
looks away

I watch her
sitting there
her figure

her shoulders
her black hair
as Miss G

goes to her
gramophone
and puts on

boring Bach
as I think
of holding

Yochana
and kissing
on the cheek

or her lips
tomorrow
or next week.

The first kiss
I remember
from a female

was some girl
on a bus trip
to the seaside

back in
the 1950s
when I

was about
9 years old
and I happen

to be sitting
next to her.
I don't know why

she kissed me
but it was nice
in a way boys

of nine
think
of kissing.

This grief
has teeth

my son
it bites through

skin and bone
tearing at heart

and mind
(the deeper

the love
the harder

the pain
I find)

this grief
with its pearly whites

gnaws at me
through dull days

and dark nights
trying to drag me

to dark depths
shaking me

like a dog with bone
bringing me

to deep hurts
and aching moan

this grief
holds hard

bites deep
taking me

to dark dawns
and black dogs

of sunset red
and echoing memories

in numb
and hurting head

this grief has teeth
my son

biting through
bone and skin

tearing me within
but memories remain

strong and clear
and bright

which will
sustain me

through many
a deep dark night.

This is the pond
she called your lake,
trees still surround,
similar sky,
birds sing,
but she has gone,
cancer ridden,
to an early plot.

This is where you sat
and talked
and laughed,
this green grass,
grows still,
flowers near by,
but she had been taken
death's finger
judged her ripe to die.

This is the sky
beneath which
you lay,
eyes focusing
on clouds move
and shape
and size,
but she is no more,
cancer
caressed her
and it gave
deadly kiss;
it is not sky
or bird or flower,
but she you miss.

This is where
she lay
and kissed
and held your hand
and loved you deep,
but she has died
of cancer's curse,
its deadly touch,
she has gone
and is missed
so much.

There is the stillness
of the body
the way it is laid out
the semi

unclothed state
the flesh
on the scrubbed table
washed and cleaned

they’d said
the head
just so
the hair brushed

as if she
just sleeping
eyes closed
lips sealed dumb

the hands motionless
at her sides
the mother stares
taking in each aspect

of the body
each minute part
of the skin
the bellybutton

the small indentations
she wants to lift
and hold to kiss
the lifeless skin

her daughter
that one
who answered back
who had odd tantrum

who listened to rock music
in her room too loud
silent now
not staring back

with those big blue eyes
of defiance
just there
laid out

head settled
on a small pillow
suffocated
they had said

someone had
pillowed her face
down hard
yet maybe

the mother thinks
if I wait long enough
it will be ok
just a mistake

an error on their part
but she knows
deep down
this is it

her daughter murdered
by some low ****.

Two monks pick fruit
from bushes
in the abbey gardens,

the early
afternoon sun
blesses

their tonsured heads,
a black beaded rosary
hangs

from the leather belt
of the younger one.
I polish the wood

of the choir stalls
with beeswax
and a yellow duster;

I remember her softness,
her opening wide,
the scent of hair

as I moved in
and lay there.
The Austrian monk,

head to one side,
sups his soup
in the refectory

off the old
French spoon,
listening to the reader

read of Cromwell,
and the thought of Compline
and bed quite soon.

As you rode through Paris
in the packed coach

the radio played
Beethoven’s Piano Concerto #5

and Mamie
sat beside you

her head to one side
sleeping

her mouth open
like some fish

out of water
her hands tucked

between her thighs
her blue skirt

riding high
and the slow movement

of the Beethoven piece
began

the piano playing softy
as the bright lights

of Paris
lit up

the dull space
inside the coach

and you closed your eyes
laying a hand

surreptiously
over hers

hearing the piano
and orchestra

as if in a dream
and Mamie

never minded
your hand

on hers
or so you thought then

and as now
it would seem.

I liked
the way you sat,
Yiska,

liked the way
your hands rested
on your knees.  

The sun was warm,
the sunlight
on your hair,

your eyes
wide open
as if wanting to drink

in the whole world.
I would lay there
head in your lap,

eyes gazing
at your neck,
there where the blouse collar

was open,
where the shadow
of a kiss remained.

And that time
you left the class room,
after double science,

the mouthed words:
love you,
moving through silence.

Lydia and I
ride a train
from the Elephant & Castle
to Victoria train station

we love the smell
of the steam train
that takes us there
the white and grey smoke

passes by
the train window
what did your mum say
when you asked

about going to Victoria
with me?
I ask
Lydia says

she looked at me
as if I’d farted
then said
asked your father

so I did and he said
-being sober and in
a good mood-
don't you two go

and elope away
together at least not
until you're 16 years old
and he laughed

and Mum just raised
her eyebrows
and tut-tutted
and Dad said

mind how you go
with that Benny boy
she smiles
and I take in

her straight cut hair
and the dull green dress
and grey cardigan
that's good

I say
I like it
when she's happy
and we get out

at Victoria and walk
along to the nearest seat
and sit down
to watch the steam trains

coming and going
maybe I’ll be
a train driver
when I’m older

I say
to be able to breathe
in the smell
of steam trains

and the sound of trains
and see them
Lydia says
black ones

and blue ones
and green ones
maybe I can be
a train driver too

she adds
do you think so?
yes that'd be good
I say

we can go off
to Scotland
and see the big castle
and see men

in kilts  
she says
we watch
as the steam train

takes off
the power of the train
the puff and shush
and shush

and she takes
my hand
and it's warm
on this little date

us two kids
of 8.

Blessed art thou amongst women. Sister Teresa closed the book. Brushed hand across book cover dispersing dust and thoughts. And blessed is the fruit…She lowered her hands to her stomach and tapped three times. Empty tomb; empty womb. Looked across the room at the crucified hung on the white wall; hammered and nailed; battered and bruised by time. She brought her hands together. Let flesh touch flesh. Jude long gone, in flesh at least. Papa had gone the year before; no last farewell; no last goodbye. Sighed. Lifted her eyes to the off-whiteness of ceiling; lifted her heart and mind to a world beyond. Bell rang from bell tower. Voice of Christ, some said. Closed eyes. Held breath. Then released breath as if God had touched her afresh.  Men not to be trusted, Papa had said. Last will and testament; his last words, she mused. She rose from the table and book; stood gazing at the black book cover; stood in a silence like one struck dumb. Bell rang. Sighed. Moved across the room; opened the door; closed it  with softness of summer’s breeze. Mama wore black in perpetual mourning. Black on black; death on death. She moved along the cloister; touched the wall; felt the roughness of brick on brick. Jude’s image pale as ghost; off to her right she thought he lingered. All in the mind, Mother Abbess had said; smiled; patted her hand. Not to touch, not over much. She paused by church door and felt for the stoup; dipped finger in water; hoped for blessedness; made sign from breast to breast; scanned the choir stalls for Sister Clare; not there, she mused; disappointment stabbed her; drove her inwards; struggled with her night of soul. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Jude kissed her once or was it more? She mused, taking her place in choir; shifting her breviary; clutching it tight. Nun followed nun; each to their own place; each to their God prayed, she mused, opening the page, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; made the sign from shoulder to shoulder; nodded the beginning of prayer and chant. Not to be trusted, Papa had said. Not seen last nine months; sorely missed; huge chasm in her breast and heart. Turned the page. Lifted her voice. Eyes flowed across the black and white as if swimming through the sea of despondency. No Sister Clare. I do declare a pain is here; wish you were here; near me now, she said inwardly, following the words like lost sheep. Where are You now my God? Sighed. Held the breviary; felt the weight of it; like her sins it weighed her down. Sunlight shone through upper windows; touched the stone floor between choir stalls; made as if fire burned between them, she mused, letting eyes move from the page; allowing memories to stir like giants waking from slumber. Flesh on flesh; hand on hand to touch. Not over much, not over much. And where are You? she asked in her silence; settled her feet in stillness. Pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour. Where had time gone? Papa gone; Mama long since dust to dust; Jude blown to the four corners in battle; all so sorely missed. No Sister Clare. Chant ended. Silence. Mother Abbess made sign; blessed all gathered; gathering her black robes she moved slowly down the aisle with her bride groomed but invisible Christ and the sisters followed each too with their battered and bruised groom inwardly held; separately loved. Sister Teresa waited and watched. Knelt and sighed. Where was her groom?  Had He gone or died? Closed eyes. Sighed. Brought hands together; moved lips and mumbled prayer, which lingered just above her head; blessed the air. Now and at the hour.

Tommy passing Nana’s room
hears her say
can you help me
with my corset?

sure
he says
walking into her room
a cigarette hanging

from the corner
of his mouth
what do you want doing?
he asks

can you pull it tight for me?
and she offers him
the two corset strings
and he take them

between his fingers
and gives a pull
she breathes in
and holds it there

her arms by her side
her face vacant
as if she’s awaiting
something to happen

her mouth slightly open
he holds the strings tight
studies her eyes
the curl of hair

the way her mouth is open
her arms by her side
thinking how beautiful she is
how he’d not noticed before

smelling her perfume
trying to place
the make and kind
that’s it

she says
can you tie it there?
sure
he says and ties the strings

behind her back
his nose a few inches
from her naked shoulder
breathing in her scent

wanting to kiss the flesh
the neck
the ear
to put his hands

upon her hips
that’s done
he says
tight as a miser’s purse

thank you
she says
that’s much better
and kisses his cheek

and says
aren’t you the man
from upstairs?
yes that’s right

he says
do you play the saxophone
that I hear?
yes the alto sax

he mimics a saxophone
with his hands
and runs his fingers
along imaginary keys

usually I’m taking a bath
when I hear you
she says
or lying in bed

your sounds sinking
through the ceiling
oh sorry if it disturbs
he says

gazing at her small ****
under the cloth
I love the haunting sounds
she says

they sound so sad
as if your soul
were speaking
or calling from across

an abyss
he gazes at her neck and chin
her moving mouth
the pink of tongue

the sparkling eyes
yes
he says
that wide abyss

wanting to hold her tight
and place
upon her moving lips
a hot lips kiss.

Time's the great healer,
I've heard say,
but not just now though,
not here within this heart

and mind it's not,
least just not
here and now,
and you know,

my son,
and though
I sense you near
in the way

the dead can be,
you're not here
as you used to be
and that's what gets me,

that it will not be
like that again,
hence the grief,
the pain.

But stoically,
as you,
my stoic son,
were right
until the end;

seeing
the larger picture,
view the whole horizon
not just the tiny details

of the here and now;
but I miss you,
right here, right now,
without doubt and how.

You met Julie
in St James’s Park
as was arranged
(better than some

pokey hole
at the hospital
she’d said)
she clothed in jeans

and open necked
blouse
a thin jacket
on which

she lay
and you’d already seen
the ducks and swans
and the telling

of her latest
cold turkey plunge
and four lettered expressions
of the nursing staff

you lay on the grass
beside her
taking in
the sun

and sky
her talking
along side you
you seeing her form

from the corner
of your eye
she smelt
of oranges

fresh pressed
her voice carried
bittersweet
her hands conducted

in the air
some invisible
orchestra
you remembered

that sexuality
she exuded that day
at the hospital
how it was then

the best *** ever
she’d said
love this place
she said suddenly

breaking out
of her tale telling mood
my parents
bless their

middle class souls
brought me often
as a child and
on she went

words spun like silk
and you laying there
taking it all in
wondering if she’d

break out
of the grip
of her addiction
wondering if

she thought of you
each time she undressed
in that ward
before bed

that best ***
of all times claim
still ringing in your head
where after this?

you said
oh
she said
there’s this cafe

I adore
in Leicester Square
we’ll go there
and that was it

all sorted
except it wasn’t
as such
the future

is some distant land
you may never reach
some shore
you’ve dreamed of

and ached for
many times before.

She was there
in the church
arranging the flowers

at the altar end
where her mother said
she’d be when you knock

at the parsonage door
some moments back
and you entered

through the old oak door
into the silence
and smell of age and flowers

seeing her
in her summer dress
unaware you stood there

her hands touching
flowers in vases
moving them into place

an intenseness
on her face
you moved slowly

down the aisle
not wanting to disturb
or cause alarm  

then Jane turned
and smiled and said
I’ve nearly done

and tapped the flowers
in the final place
Where shall we go?

You moved closer
to where she stood
and said

To Heaven
if we’re good
they say

she shook her head
and said
I meant where

about outside?
Wherever you like
you replied

studying her hands
as she wiped them
on her summer dress

how the fingers lay
how some god
brought them

to such beauty
and her eyes
and hair

and her
just standing there
enough

you mused inside
not out
to bring one to a faith

of some creative god
and she said
Why do you stare?

What holds you
rooted there?
Let’s go climb

the Downs and look across
the vast expanse
of fields and trees

and birds in air
just you and me
and this love

just being there
Oh how romantic a mood
holds you today

she said and put her arm
through yours
and moved you on

and down the aisle
between the pews
unaware as youth

too often does
of hours passing
and having time to lose.

Helen's mother meets us
after school and takes us
to the market
to buy Helen
a new school skirt.

I walk behind with Helen
as her mother walks in front
pushing a big pram
with baby inside
and her brother
sitting on top.

Her mother has
a large behind
like a shelf
and muscle-bound
arms and legs.

That Cogan boy
said I looked like a fish,
Helen says to me.

How do you look
like a fish?

He said he has
a goldfish that looks
like me:
big eyes
and a big mouth.

He can talk;
he's got glasses
and a mouth
that is always open.

Keep up, you two,
Helen's mother says.

We run a few steps
to catch up.

He pinched my bottom
in class during history
and made me shout
and Mr F said
I was not to shout out
during lesson.

Did you say
it was Cogan?

No, didn't want to say;
bit embarrassing
to say he pinched
my bottom
with the whole class
listening.

Mind the road,
you two chatterboxes,
Helen’s mother bellows.

We pause at the kerb
as a lorry rushes by.

We walk across the road;
Helen’s mother's hat
is lopsided,
her coat
has a loose hem.

I had a fight
with Cogan once.

Did you?

Yes, he said
he was going
to break my nose;
but I punched him
with a left,
knocked his
glasses flying
and he couldn't
see me after that,
so I punched him
in the bread basket.

Bread basket?

Slang for stomach.

O, I see.

She frowns.

I like it when she frowns;
her forehead
creates lots of lines
and her glasses
slide down her nose.

We arrive at the market
and Helen’s mother
sorts through skirts
on a market stall.

Come here, Helen,
I need to measure you
against this skirt.

Helen goes to her mother
who places a number
of skirts against her.

Helen's eyes are wide open;
her mouth open
like a fish
out of water,
but I say nothing,
I look at her plaited hair,
her hands by her side
and brown scuffed shoes.

This is the one,
her mother says
to the market man,
I'll have this one.

The guy wraps up
the skirt in a bag
and takes the money
and gives her change.

Now home to tea,
Helen's mother says,
and don't
linger behind,
my girl,
or I’ll tan
your backside.

We set off,
following behind,
I think of Helen’s
wide eyes
and open mouth
fish impression,
but keep it inside.

Della lays in bed.
The moon is full
shines through the
window. Her mother

seemed angry, about
her getting into the
car, with the man who
was her mother's friend.

Shouting voice, long words.
The police questioned
the man about it, but
nothing was done, so

he was released with
a warning, not to pick
her up again. She liked
the car. The seat was

comfortable. Springy
over bumps. The man
said: do you want to see
the ducks? She likes ducks,

like the colours, the way
they seem to glide on water.
The man said that she was
very pretty, she liked it

being said she was pretty,
many tell her she's ugly,
a duckling, a plump *****,
whatever that was. She

watches as the moon seems
to drift across the window,
clouds cover it and uncover
it like a magic trick, she smiles.

The man said she had nice
legs and eyes. She liked  him
for saying nice things. Some
boys at school call her monkey

face. She saw the man's hand
touching her leg. She thought
his hand was warm, soft touching.
He never said anything about

her being Downs. He never
seemed to mind her tongue
sitting on her lower lip when
she spoke, never made fun of her

as some girls did when she spoke
to them. She liked seeing the ducks,
the colours, the way they swam.
He held her hand. He said in case

she fell and her mother would be
worried. His hand was hairy, the
hairs tickled her. After the ducks
he put her seatbelt on, leaning over

her. He said her perfume was lovely.
He was kind to kiss her hand; some
boys squeeze it to make her cry.
Her mother is angry, she hasn't told

her mother about the man kissing;
she got so angry about the car ride.
She said nothing more. Looked at
the fire in her mother's eyes; her

shouty voice hurt her ears. She
closes her eyes. The police lady
asked her questions. Some words
she didn't know, she just shook

her head, said nothing more.
Her mother wide eyed crying.
All because of a car ride. Della
liked the car, the colours, the

smell of leather on the seats.
The man had a nice smell; his
voice soft and deep. She hears
the wind outside. Time to sleep.

There’s a fun fair
on the bombsite

off Meadow Row
you told Fay

that Friday
on the way home

from school
and she said

I can only come
if my daddy’s out

he thinks
all such things

are sinful
and if he

caught me there
he’d beat me for sure

Ok
you said

and let it drop
and walked on

beside her
the afternoon heat

making you sweat
and then she said

I will try
to come if I can

and she looked sad
and her pale features

seemed even paler
and her eyes searched you

and you said
I hope you can

but if not another time
when the fair returns

and you both paused
at the kerb

as traffic rushed by
and her thin hand

reached out
and held yours

her fingers
touched yours

her thumb rubbing
against your thumb

and when the traffic stopped
because of the change of lights

you walked across the road
still hand in hand

she just a few steps behind
a case of

(as her father
often said)

the blind
leading the blind.

People are too concerned
with self, said Father Higgs.
His aged face as if hewn from
Rock, sat before you on broad

shoulders, the lips labouring
with the words.  Too much
worried how self will feel,
how self will benefit. He

hunched forward, his large
eyes moving over you like
tired slugs. The symbol of
the cross, he said with a

movement of his head, is to
cut through the I, the sign
of the self. You noticed one
high brow, grey, larger than

the other, hair in nose like
insects in hiding. He breathed
out deeply. Self denial is
the essence of the message

of Christ, he said, a left
inclination of his head, his
teeth (not his own) large
and discoloured. You wanted

to ask questions, but he raised
a hand. The word I is stated
too often in conversations,
he said, or self too much

brought in as myself or herself
or himself or such as may be
used in talk. You understood
this was his way of lecturing.

His black monastic habit was
stained about the neck by food
or dribble or dried up phlegm.
We ought to be concerned with

others, he stated, wheezing, face
reddening, eyes enlarging. Where
is my inhaler? he wheezed, I really
must be off, this smoker’s cough,

my poor old lungs, must get myself
a stronger inhaler and he was off,
out of the common room he had
caught you in some hour back.

All you saw was his hand and inhaler
and departing monastic habit of black.