Auntie said
don’t go
too far away
with the mutt

I need to know
where you are
and so you
and the mutt

went down
the metal stairway
and off
into the barrack grounds

at Aldershot
keeping close
to the places
that your aunt

could see you from
and you could hear
soldiers marching
on the parade ground

and the sergeants
bellowing their orders
to the marching troops
and you sensed

the cold air
and frost
on the ground
as you walked

and the mutt sniffed
the earth
and you said
come on mutt

let’s go for a run
and off you went
and the mutt followed
and overtook you

its tail wagging
its eyes large
and brown
like pools of chocolate

and lucid like mud
and you raced him
as far as you could
then you had to stop

for breath
and the mutt
stopped too
and looked back at you

its tongue hanging
from the corner
of its mouth
and you looked over

to where your aunt lived
and realised
she wouldn’t
be able to see you

from where you were
and the dog didn’t care
and the air
was chilling

your lungs
and your tongue hung
in the corner
of your little boy mouth

and the soldiers marched
and marched
and you stood watching
bent over

with your hands
on your knees
and ******* birds
called out from the trees.

Clara is in deep thought.
Head on pillow. Hand
resting beside head, one
ring on finger. She sighs.

Senses still his touches,
smells still his aftershave,
his body odours beneath.
Moves leg. Muscles in

left buttock feel numb.
She didn’t want to leave,
didn’t want him to stay,
didn’t want him anyway.

She moves her toes. He
****** those. He said let’s
make love and that was it.
If that was love then love

is not what love was often
promised. She sniffs the pillow.
His smell, his presence there.
A small strand of hair. Her

mother never spoke of ***
or what it entailed; her mother
failed. She moves on her
back, stretches her legs.

Had cramp. The moves he
wanted, the positions he
required. Now she’s tired.
She senses the urgent need

to urinate. Full bladder.
Closes eyes. Feels the need
increase. Needs release.
She wonders what made

him make love the way he did;
those moves and positions.
The language he used. She
feels abused. She sits up.

Needs to urinate, moves
to edge of the bed, stands
and races to the toilet.
Door’s stuck; ****, too late.

I sense the touch
of boy's eyes upon
me, said Jeanette,
the touch inches

beneath my skin,
moves along my
veins, ****** at my
heart. I sit and see

the other girls remote,
untouched as I, their
voices gathered like
hens at feed, pecking

their order of who
and must; I hear the
words giggled: kiss
and tell, and touch

and feel, and who did
what to whom, echoing
around the room in
whispers spoken, hid

by hands, eyes betraying
what their voices are saying.
A girl talks of ******
climes, of ***** deeds,

with him, but who is he
for no one tells, just a
lover of girls. I wash
each night to cleanse me

from their touch of words,
their deeds half buried
in my mind's hold; I bathe
and sit and scrub, sensing

the day's grime wash clear
away, hair,arms, hands,
neck and *******, where
they say(and laugh) their

*** boys play. I hear their
words as I sit in class,
whispering, whispering,
who did what to whom

and where and were you
there?  I wonder at their
lives, their way of walk
and do and deeds, the want

of love or need of keeping
something back, virginity
not saved not cared for such
as seems when they speak

and sprout it all comes out.
I bathe in water warm and
soapy, scrub my skin to
cleanse them off, the night

spread before me like a dark
gown, the stars blinking eyes,
the moon a ghostly ship on a
dreary sea. I don't think boys

will want of me. I dress as
neat and tight and show no
part that should not be be
seen, I am as yet untouched,

unfingered, unkissed, a
flower in a gloomy meadow,
a blossom in a city site, a
gem(says mother) in a heap

of *****. I sense the touch of
boy's eyes upon my skin, it
bites at me, ****** at nerves
and heart, I want to be undone,
not left alone and torn apart.

The touch of her hand,
skin on skin, warm, soft,
and then she was off,
bell tolled, she walking

away, returning to school,
as was I, yet how to shake
off the feel and warmth
and softness? I walked

the corridor to the next
lesson, mind in confusion,
half back there on the field
with her, half with me, one  

foot one in front of the other
kind of thing, dreading lesson’s
bore, wanting to be back on
the field with her, wanting more.

Even though I was there in
the room sitting, listening or
seemingly so, it was she I
thought of, her lips that held

me in awe, not his, this teacher,
sprouting some yarn of a far
off war, some kingdom lost,
some one’s head chopped off,

while the half of brain and thought
on she of heart and mind’s hold,
taunted me from far away field,
in imagery, seemed all love and

kiss and such, but meanwhile,
I here with dulled brain half,
could only sit and stare at where
I had been kissing her there.

Along the lane
towards Diddling
you stopped

and looked
at the church
on the horizon

between
the hedgerows
beneath

the blue
and white
clouded sky

Jane
stood next to you
her hand

holding yours
the softness
of her skin

against yours
her dark hair
tied

by a green ribbon
one of my favourite sights
she said

the church
becoming
more visible

the closer you get
her voice disturbed
birdsong

from the hedgerows
a blue ***
took flight

the flutter
of small wings
we never had hedgerows

in London
you said
no blue *** birds

no wide fields
or Downs
just streets

and houses
and pavement
and grass

around our flats
where pigeons
or sparrows

settled
for thrown out
bread

from windows above
Jane gazed at you
her dark eyes

focusing
I’d hate that
she said

I love my countryside
and fields
and birds

and open sky
she sniffed
the air

and you walked on
along the lane
she pointed out

wildflowers
and hedgerow plants
and talked

of the farmhand
who died
when his tractor

turned over
in a field
and the first time

she remembered
visiting
the small church

and her father
holding her high
above his head

so she could see
the expanse
of the Downs

and you listened
to her words
the language

holding you
and drawing you in
her lips opening

and closing
her summer dress
moving

as she walked
her sandaled feet
treading the lane

you wanted
to captured it all
to recall it

years later
all over
again.

You cut the motor
On the mower. I’ve

Never seen the grass
Cut with so much

Enthusiasm, Father
Dean said, coming

Up along side the abbey
Church where you

Had mown, you a
Postulant monk, he

A professed monk,
Bearded (permission

Granted due to a fragile
Heart) robed in black.

He smiled, his tired
Gaze scanned where

You had been. I like it
Out in the fresh air,

You said shyly. To work
Is to pray, he said, and

To pray is to work. You
Have done both. You

Smiled and looked over
The mown stretch of

Grass beside the abbey
Church. The bell tolled

From the bell tower.
Must go, he said, the

Lord calls. He wandered
Slowly down by the back

Of the abbey and out of
Sight. Over by the side

The monk’s cemetery stood
Silent and still, the stone

Crosses marking the resting
Place of monks who had died.

Overhead, in the sky black and
Long winged rook flew and cried.

Benedict met Julie
(the druggie
and whatever
else she was)
circa 1967
at the foot
of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square.

She was dressed
in a mini skirt,
tight top, her hair up.

He dressed in his red shirt,
pink slacks, black shoes,
smiled as he approached.

Never guess how many times
I've been chatted up
as a *****, she said,
since I've been
standing here.

Guess you
put them right,
he said.

Do I look
like a *****?
she asked.

No, of course not,
he said, taking in
her mini skirt,
the tight top,
the pressing out ****.

She sighed.
Anyway you're here,
where now? She asked.

The gallery? He said,
indicating the National
Portrait Gallery behind.

I need a drink, she said.
Are you allowed
with the medication
you're on?
Since when
did you become
my father? She said.

He looked at the people
round about, the pigeon feeders,
the meeting of lovers,
visitors from some
foreign shores,
middle class,  
up your *** bores.

Ok, he said, let's go
have that drink,
then take in a gallery
or cinema.

I feel a need
to make a hit,
she said.

They only let you
out of the hospital
because they think
you can be trusted,
he said.

Then they shouldn't
trust me should they,
she said.

But they do.
It's up to you,
but I'm not
sticking around
if you go back
down that alley,
he said. I said
I felt a need,
didn't say
I was going to,
she muttered.

She moved away
from the Column;
he followed, through
the Square, pass
the people and pigeons,
the kids and parents.

He gazed at her ***
as she moved ahead,
the sway of it,
the thighs, sans
stockings, her feet  
with sandals,
treading the ground.

She stopped at the edge
of the road; he stood
beside her, took her hand,
felt her warmth.

They found a bar
in Leicester Square.
Ordered drinks, sat down,
lit cigarettes, smoked.

Guess who I met
the other week?
He asked.

Who? she asked.
Charles Lloyd,
he said.

Who's he? she asked.
Jazz sax-player.
Met him outside
Dobell’s' record shop
in Charing Cross Road.

Is he famous? She asked.
Sure he is. I got him
to autograph my copy
of his latest LP,
Benedict said.

What did he say?
She asked.
Sure man he said
and scribbled on
the back cover.

She looked out
of the window;
took a long drag
of her cigarette.

He watched her profile,
the lips holding
the cigarette,
the puffing out
of smoke.
Thinking of her
in the hospital ward,
the white dressing gown,
the skippered feet,
that time they made love
in that small room
off the ward.

Another drink?
She said.
Sure, he said,
and ordered two more.

Some place inside her head
a wild wave of need
swept up the empty shore.

Watching trains?
Lydia's
old man says
where abouts?

Waterloo
I tell him

I smell beer
on his breath
as he sways
on the step

Lydia
stands behind
her old man
gazing through
the narrow gap
between his
arm and chest

why watch trains?
he asks me

we like trains
I tell him
the steam trains

he stares hard
hands on hips
this right Kid?
he asks her
looking down
with glazed eyes

yes Daddy
she replies
timidly

ok Kid
you can go
but you boy
keep her close
keep her safe
he tells me

sure I will
I tell him

you'd better

course I will

he goes in
grumpily
walking slow
down the hall

Lydia
looks at me
her small frame
seeming so
under fed

let's go then
I tell her

she lets loose
a small smile
and we go
through the Square
down the *****

enough coins
for the fare
on the bus

and maybe
2 doughnuts
1 coffee
and 1 tea.

The hustle and bustle
of people everywhere
rushing by
in suits and skirts

and some in bowler hats
some in trilbys
and some hatless
running for a train

the steam engine
letting out steam
with a sudden gush
and me and Lydia

standing back a bit
to allow it all to happen
I kept her near me
protectively

the porters
pushing trolleys
with bags and suitcases
the smell

yes the smell
of the trains
and the crowds
the sun shining shyly

through the gaps
in walls and rooftop
and sky
we both looked there

watching the steam rise
the smoke ooze out
and Lydia said
so loud

can hardly hear
and I couldn't
for a moment
then the engine stopped

and it went quieter
for a moment
and I had just begun
to say

makes you feel DEAF
the last word echoed
around the nearby
part of the station

and she laughed
and people stared at us  
and one man
with a bowler hat

stared at us
and walked on with
brolley and case
and some woman

looked down
her nose at us
standing there
by the gates

waiting to get on
the platform
with our platform tickets
and the smell of the trains

seeping into our noses
and I loving it
wanting it more
the bite of it

and then
once the crowd
had gone in
the ticket collector

let us in
with a wave of his hand
and clipped our tickets
wish we could go

somewhere nice
on one of these trains
Lydia said
somewhere where

there's sunshine
and beaches and sand
and ice creams
and donkey rides

maybe one day
I said as we walked
along the platform
one day we will

you and I
and we followed
the big people
along the platform

and watched
as they got on
the train and closed
the carriage doors

and we sat on a seat
and waited
and watched
the steam rising upward

from the engine
the power
of the black engine
the driver looking out

at us
the stoker black faced
smiling
the guard waved

his green flag
and the train
huffed and puffed loudly
and he got on

and closed his door
and opened his window
on the train
and it moved

it chugged loudly
like some giant awaking
and we sat
and stared

and cheered it
on its way
that morning
that bright

sun
giving off
heat
day.

I knocked
on Lydia's front door
and waited
the morning sun

was coming
into the Square
Lydia's old man
opened the door

and stared at me
with bloodshot eyes
what do you want?
he said

is Lydia
coming out?
I asked
who wants to know?

I do
why?
wondered if she'd like
to see the trains

I said
why would she
want to see trains?
he said gruffly

she likes trains
I said
he looked beyond me
at the block of flats behind  

who said
she likes trains?
she did
I said

I work
with fecking trains
all day
she's never said

about trains before
he said
looking at me again
his eyes trying

to focus
we often
go see trains
I said

we went  to Waterloo
train station
the other week
he closed his eyes

rubbed
his hairy chin
and breathed out
a beery flavour

LYDIA
he bellowed suddenly
I stepped off
the front door step

and stood
gaping at him
LYDIA
he called again

he opened his eyes
and stared at me
I detected life
behind the mask

Lydia came
to the door
and peeped under
her old man's arm

this kid wants to know
if you want go see
fecking trains
he said gently

his voice silky
do you?
she nodded her head
yes

can I?
she asked
he looked at me
as if I’d just

stolen his wallet
trains?
he said
steam trains

I said
yes steam trains
she said
we like watching them

he raised his eyebrows
and looked down at her
under his arm
resting on the door jamb

ok ok
if you want go see trains
go see trains
he said

and wandered off
inside
leaving Lydia and me
looking at each other

Waterloo again?
I asked
what about Victoria station?
she said

ok sure
I replied
and she turned
around

to go get
her shoes inside.

The nuns take us down
to the beach
from the nursing home.

Anne is in her wheelchair
looking at the other kids
paddling or playing ball
or sitting gazing out to sea.

I stand beside her,
watching the gulls
fly overhead.

Aren't you going
in to swim?
She asks me.

No, I don't swim.

I used to swim,
until they took off my leg.

Can't you swim
with one leg?

Not easy,
but I guess
I haven't tried.

Sister Bridget throws a ball
to the boys;
another nun
lifts her habit
and tiptoes
into the sea
with some girls.

Do you your parents
let you swim?

Don't want to talk
about them.

I look at her
with her stern gaze
and dark hair.

Why not?

Because I don't;
talk about
something else, Kid.

Do nuns marry?

She turns and looks at me.

Of course not;
they take vows
of celibacy.

What’s that?

She sighs.

Means they don't
have ***
don't have kids
and so on.

I frown.

Not ever?

Better not
or they're
for the high jump.

High jump?

In trouble, Kid, trouble.

What's having *** mean?

She raises her highbrows,
looks at me pityingly.

Where do you live, Kid?
Hasn't your old man
told you about
the birds and bees?

No, he doesn't talk
about nature at all;
he talks about films
and the theatre
and actors and such,
but not nature
study things.

She looks out to sea;
gulls fly overhead noisily;
I stare at her one leg
sticking out
of her short red skirt.

There are males and females
and to make babies
they have to get together
and do certain things.

What certain things?

Well kissing is one thing
and after that,
things kind of
lead onto other things.

I frown;
I recall a girl in school
kissing me,
but I don't recall
any other things
happening,
but I don't tell Anne that.

I see,
I say.

Go swim, Kid,
go swim.

I wander down
to the edge of the beach
and peer out to sea,
hoping no other girl
tries to kiss me.

Ingrid sat next to you
on the school hired coach
to the Tower of London
sun poured

through the window
making you feel hotter
and Ingrid
who usually smelt

of dampness
smelt of oranges
fresh peeled  
her usual well worn

raincoat and cardigan
were gone
and she was clothed
in a creamy blouse

and green skirt
and off white socks
and plimsolls
(her shoes in

the shoe smith
being mended
she had said)
and you in  a grey

open neck shirt
and grey flannel
short trousers
( no jeans

the teacher said
the day before)
and once all the kids
were aboard

and the teachers
had counted heads
the coach took off
and the talking erupted

and voices filled the air
and laughter and chatter
and you looked by Ingrid
at the passing view

she looked out too
her hair you noticed
washed and combed
and on her lap

in a bag
her packed lunch
and she held
the bag tightly

and you noticed
her fingers
the nails bitten
but the ink stains gone

and she turned
and said how excited
she was and that
she'd never been

to the Tower before
and that her dad had said
she wouldn't have gone
if her mother hadn't paid

and moaning
about the cost
and don't we have enough
to pay what with

one thing and another
and she lowered
her voice
and whispered

that her dad had hit her
for wanting to go
and her mother too
for interfering

and she pulled up
her skirt and showed you
a bruise on her thigh
then she looked away

and was silent
and you thought
that if you saw him
you'd have pop him

one with your cap gun
(symbolic of course)
then she turned
and said not

to tell anyone
and you said
you wouldn't
and she smiled

and squeezed your hand
and you hoped
none of the boys about
saw her hand

but you were glad
she had and you felt
kind of grown up
with a girlfriend

of your own
like those in the films
you'd seen where
the cowboy gets his girl

in those usual boring bits
you tended to hate
but there again
you and she were

just good friends
and only eight.

Gigi hopes Madame
Mouton won’t mind her
Trying on her new

Clothes after all when
Will she ever get
To buy such garments

And Madame has so
Many anyway
Surely, she would not

Care, but nonetheless
Gigi knows she must
Be careful not to

Leave any of her
Rather cheap perfume
All over the clothes

And not leave hairs
Or red smudges of
Lipstick. She puts on

The underwear and
Feels on her flesh the
Silky softness, the

Touch next to her skin,
The smoothness which is
So sensual. She

Parades around her
Mistress’s bedroom
Posing in front of

The mirror, trying
Not to imagine
Old Monsieur Mouton

Finding her there, she
Dismisses the thought
Like a naughty child

From a room. She pulls
On the dress and does
Up the buttons at

The back. Easier
Said than done; fingers
Fiddle, too many

Thumbs. Done it. She looks
Back at her new found
Reflection, does a

Turn around. Looks at
Her behind. She stands
Admiring the

Dress. Madame has so
Many; Gigi says,
I have so few. She

Listens. Is that her
Back home already?
Gigi undoes the

Buttons and pulls off
The dress over her
Head and takes off the

Silky underwear
And stuffs both items
Under the bed and

Climbs under herself.
The door opens and
Footsteps enter the

Room. Gigi? Madame
Mouton calls out loud.
Gigi? Where this that

Girl? You can never
Find her anywhere.
Maids, what can one do

With them? They are so
Lazy. Then Madame
Mouton leaves the room

And closes the door
Behind her, calling
Gigi’s name louder

And louder. Gigi
Breathes out and watches
A large black spider

Crawl across her thigh
And holds back with great
Effort the loud cry.

It's like the world stopped,
like someone
turned off the lights,

like some kid
in a dark room
full of frights.

Where, my son,
do I go from here?

The horizon is dull
and unclear.

I played
the Led Zeppelin album
you bought me last.

Seem to see your ghost,
can't catch it,
can't move so fast.

It's like the seasons
have all gone wrong,
like emptiness
has become the norm,

and can't recall
the lyrics
of my favourite song.

Like a child left
in a storm,
full of lights
and sounds,

and ancient woes,
trying to see
where the dead ones go.

You were sitting on the grass
outside your tent

at the base camp
along the road from Tangiers

smoking a cigarette
when Mamie came along

and stood with her arms folded
and her red hair damp

and her face flushed
like a spanked behind

Have you seen the latrines?
She asked

No not yet
you replied

she took a deep intake
of breath and then said

I expected at least
a white bowl

but there are just two bricks
over a hole in the ground

and no paper
to wipe yourself afterwards

you exhaled smoke
and said

You’re meant to
take your own with you

Your own latrine?
She said angrily

No your own bog roll
you said

she sighed
and looked down

towards the beach
reaching to

the Mediterranean Sea
I haven’t unpacked

my bags yet
she said

and you gazed at her
standing there

in her pink shorts
and white open necked blouse

and tried not
to imagine her

crouched on two bricks
over a hole

in the ground
her legs bent

her ******* by her ankles
and her backside

mooning over the hole
Well

she said moodily
At least now you know

what to expect
and went off

towards the beach
her hips swaying

side to side
her taut buttocks

captured in her pink shorts
and the midday sun

touching your head
in a kind of blessing

with its heat
and you inhaled

smoke again
remembering the rain

coming through
Franco’s Spain.

She brought
two pieces of cake
her mother had made
to the pond

she termed our lake  
and we sat
on the dry summer grass
she unwrapped the paper

and handed me
the slice of cake
looks good
I said

it is
Judith said
she can do
some things right

the cake was sweet
and soft
and mouth watering
I held the cake

over my palm
collecting every crumb
she looked out
over the pond

the still skin
of water
flies hovering
over the top

bird calls and songs
and the sun seeping
through
the tall trees

overhead
she had her hair tied
in an untidy bun
at the back

her grey dress
came to the knees
dimly flowered
I sneaked these out

Judith said
not often
I get the chance
well done

I said
the last few crumbs
were gone now
just a damp palm

where they had been
she finished hers
and licked her palms
do you remember

when we first
came here?
she asked
yes

I said
winter
and I was frozen
and my fingers

were numb
she smiled
yes and I licked them
warm again

I smiled too
it had been
as she said
frozen fingers

****** warm
her mouth over
the fingers
one by one

wouldn't do it
for just anyone
she said
I hope not

I said
that first kiss
recall that?
she asked

of course
Christmas
while carol singing
and the moon bright

and you embracing me
and our lips
kind of met
you embraced me too

she said
your lips met mine
they did I recalled
sitting there

next to her
her body so close
to mine
I could hear

her heart beat
her pulse race
what carol
were the others

singing?
she asked
haven't a clue
I said

too busy kissing
and you had
your hand
drawing me tighter

to you
on my backside
yes I did
didn't I

a bird flew across
the pond noiseilly
we looked up
caught sunlight

with our eyes
bird sounds
clouds passed
her hand

touched mine
a tingle raced
along my nerves
ringing bells

in my head
years have fled
time emptied away
and she is dead.

The ECTs
were performed

in a small room
off the locked ward

where the patient
would be strapped down

on a bed
injected

then wired up
then they turned on

the juice
and it was

in that room
you came round

to find Christine
lying on another bed

her head
slightly turned

clothed in a white
nightgown

her hair in disarray
you felt heavy

as if someone
had hammered

your head
light leaked

at the sides
of the black shutters

over the window
Christine opened her eyes

and saw you there
I feel ******

she said
me too

you replied
I feel as if I’m a ghost

and no one’s
told me I died

she looked around
the room

in the half light
then at her bare feet

no sign of nails
she said

but I feel as if crucified
as if my brain’s

been fried
her words hung

in the air
like young birds

on their first flight
lingering

momentarily there
it’s meant

to help you forget
you said

meant to wipe out
that aspect

that causes the pain
like being jilted

at the altar?
she said

like standing in front
of all those people

like some dressed up ****?
yes like that

you said
well it hasn’t worked

she said
looking at you

her eyes fixed
with that stare

as if she’d been emptied
and wasn’t really there

love’s a cruel disease
you uttered

your lips barely moving
your eyes drinking her in

her hair
her pale features

her white gown
her legs

and feet
naked

why did he jilt me?
she asked

no idea
you replied

he lied
she said

he’s a fool
you stated

I’d not have left you
but he did

she breathed out
that’s the rub

you said
that the nail

that enters deepest
her eyes watered

and she put out a hand
and touched yours

hanging at the side
of your bed

where you were  
strapped down

two ****** people
she muttered

both half dead
outside the room

a radio played
voices talked

someone sang
out of tune

they’ll be coming
to unfetter us

she said
quite soon.

Una kissed
each one breast

at a time,
so softly,

her lover,
thought of them

as melting,
unlike when

her husband,
dear Brian,

licked at them
like some hound

lapping up
rain water.

Una put
kisses on

each rib place,
gently there,

lips brushing,
moving on,

then she kissed
***** hair

to get there,
her lover's

honey ***,
her queendom

of Eden,
arched over

her lover,
she kissed deep,

lips melting,
snaky tongue

entering,
offering

no apple,
forbidden fruit,

but soft love,
bringing on

to the boil
of deep sighs

and throat sounds.
Her lover,

in her turn,
entered slow,

her middle
firm digit,

but gently
into that

Dublin ****,
which Brian,

her husband,
never could

bring himself
to finger enter

such a place
(such as hers

not Una's).
As Una

kissed softly,
her lover,

swooning hot,
then forgot

her Brian's
*** failing,

but enjoyed
so deeply

the kisses
and tonguing

of her hot
honey ***.

Don't think
I’ll ever
get use to this:
your death,
your not being here,
the absence of you
in my chair,
sitting there,
silent,
with your
humorous grin.

I expect you
to come in
at your usual time,
on the usual days,
your hungry bear
walk, you searching
for food on table
and oven and fridge;
sitting watching TV
or some video,
playing games,
football crazy,
soft swearing
at the referee.

I can't believe
you've gone;
can't quite fix it
in my head,
the  hard fact
you're dead.

I see play over
and over
in my mind's eye,
that last talk,
you puffed
and unwell;
the mundane
conversation,
the minutes ticking by,
you seemingly
soon to go,
soon for the first time
to die.

Unanswered questions
remain
of who
and how
and why?

It’s not the sort of house
You’d want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn’t leave for days.

She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.

There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
How to Dress for the Occasion.

We found the first child
Drowned in a bath, the hair
Was floating there on the
Water’s skin.  Someone sort
Of sobbed or maybe they
Didn’t, seemed as though
They had. The second child
Was lying beneath a blanket
Where they’d suffocated.

That’s where the main smell
Came from. She breathed in
And smelt pine air freshener
That Caser used in his house,
She wanted to smoke, pull
Out a cigarette and light up,
But didn’t. The third child,
Baby really, was stiff in a cot.

Unfed, unwashed, a token of
Neglect. Someone pulled back
Curtains, light broke through
Darkness, lit up the sad scene;
Another nearby let out a cry,
The under the breath kind.

She pushed her knees together
As if about to give birth to a
Different tale, her hands played
With the glass, a finger tapped
The side. The mother was found
In a darkened room, wrists slit,
OD’d days back, slouched in a
Chair, dressed in death and black.  

Had sleepless nights after, she
Said, ought to be used to, but
You never are, kind of gets
Under the radar. Caser looked
At her sitting there, her hair
Pulled in a bun, her eyes looking
Up at the Picasso print he’d bought.

She had told him at last. She had
Unburdened herself of the one
Last thing that she couldn’t tell
Him at the psychiatric sessions
They’d had at his in town clinic.

Never did like Picasso, she said,
Turning away, putting down the
Glass, as of nothing more to say.

Caser watched her as she got up,
Brushed down her dress, sighed
And walked down the hall, left
His apartment, victim of the Fall.

Shalom
you said
but Fay's father

ignored you
on the stairs
of the block of flats

you were only trying
to make peace with him
because of Fay

but he wasn't
buying into any Jewism
as he termed it

forgetting that
his Jesus said head
of his Catholic Church

was a Jew himself
but that was
another matter

so you let him go
on his way
up the stairs

humming some
Latin hymn to himself
later seeing Fay

on the way
to the grocer's shop
through the Square

she said her father
had forbidden her
to even talk with you

(the Jew Boy
he had said)
but she knew it was  

impossible even
if she wanted to
which she didn't

despite the risk
she ran in seeing you
or talking with you

I only said shalom to him
you said
she frowned

it means peace
you said
I could have said

something else to him
less friendly
she smiled weakly

best say nothing
she said
o.k

you said
so you walked with her
to the grocer's shop

across the road
and along to the grocer's shop
by the newspaper shop

where they had
The Three Musketeers book
in the window

which you wanted
to buy at sometime
and you showed her

the book and the cover
with a picture
of three musketeers

sword fighting
and you walked on
to the grocers

and she bought
what was on her list
and you got

what your mother
had written
on a small scrap of paper

and afterwards you said
how about a penny drink
at the Penny shop?

and she looked anxious
and said
not sure Dad  said

not to linger around
well don't linger
you said

but have a drink
and we can sit
by the wall outside

and see the world go by
and sip our drinks
she hesitated

but then said
o.k
so you took her

to the Penny shop
and bought two bottles
of penny pop

and sat outside
by the wall
your shopping bags

beside you
the morning sun
blessing your heads

and she talked
of the nuns
at her school

how strict they were
but one she said
was kind

and taught her
the Credo in Latin
word by word

and you sat
listening to her
and she sitting there

momentarily free
like an uncaged
song bird.

Lydia follows her big sister
out of the flat;
she is tall
and has a blonde
explosion of hair,
eye-shadow so thick
she appears clown like.

She walks off
with her tight-dressed
backside swinging away.

I watch her go,
fascinated how
she manages to balance
on such high heeled shoes.

Be glad
when she leaves home,
maybe then
I get to have
my bed back,
Lydia says.

How does she balance
in those shoes?

Practise,
she's worn them
since she could walk,
Dad says.

Her big sister, Gloria,
goes down the *****
and out of sight.

Where we going?
I ask.

You decide.

What about
taking a train
to Peckham Rye?

Have to get some money;
I'll scrounge off Mum.

So she goes indoors
and I stand outside
the door
looking out
at the Square,
hearing voices
from within.

An old guy walks past
with his Boxer dog,
he nods to me
as he passes.

Lydia's mother
comes to the door
with Lydia behind her.

Think I have loads of money?
Think I can afford
to let her go here
and there
just on a whim?

No, I have money,
my old man gave it me
for polishing his shoes,
not that they needed polishing,
but he likes them
real bright brown.

I don't give a ****
where you get
your money from,
but I haven't money
to waste
on a train journey
for her.

I can pay.

You?

Sure, I have enough.

She is silent
(miracles happen).

She stares at me
with her beady eyes.

If you are paying,
then she can go,
but no monkey business,
no getting in people’s way.

She walks indoors
and leaves Lydia
standing there wide-eyed
and open mouthed.

I can go?

Sure you can,
but no monkey business,
whatever that means.

No climbing trees,
I guess.

We set off together
through the Square
and down the *****,
she looking back,
I taking in
her thinness
and lank hair,
and that look
of uncertain
despair.

Your Uncle Fred
on Christmas Eve
at Gran’s house

when you were a kid
did the sand dance
wearing an old fashion

man’s striped nightgown
and a red fez
(he got that in Egypt

during WW2
Gran said)
and brown

open toed sandals
and Uncle Ed
turned the handle

of the windup gramophone
where an old
78rpm record

was playing
and there were
glasses of sherry

being consumed
and cigarettes being smoked
and you sat watching

clapping your hands
and Gran would get up
afterwards

and do her Can-Can
like she used to
as she young woman

on the stage
and Granddad sat there
quiet saying nothing

looking at
the people gathered
sipping his sherry

watching his wife
lifting her legs
her white fuzzy hair

going to and fro
as she moved
and you wanted

to have some sherry
but your mother said
no you have lemonade

little boys
don’t have sherry
so you sat

with your lemonade
watching Uncle Fred
and his dance

and the music coming
from the old gramophone
and the smell of sherry

and beer and cigarette smoke
and Uncle telling the adults
one of his old army jokes.

Catalina waits for Arturo to come,
she has been prepared, told how
to lay and what to expect (to a
degree) and to wait and be ready.

Her attendants have left after
much fussing and tidying and
words of advice.  She lies on
the four poster bed, the hard

mattress beneath her, white
overstuffed pillows, staring at
her feet, wiggling her toes,
scratching her nose. She hears

voices, the door opens and he
comes in followed by others,
he looks at her shyly, looks
away, his friends whisper,

make suggestions, he laughs,
they guffaw, then seeing it's
time to go they make their
farewells, and leave the room,

closing the door behind them
with a click. She looks at him,
thin, tall, pale as moonlight,
clean shaven with his mop

of dark hair, standing there.
He looks at her lying on the
bed, hair dressed just so,
nightgown open at her soft

neck, small ******* just visible,
her hands together as if
about to pray. What to say?
He coughs, taps his hairless

chest. She smiles and taps the
place beside her on the bed,
her slim fingers childlike in
their smallness, ringed, his

wedding ring on the finger
next to another gold one of
smaller size. He climbs into
bed, senses the hard base,

his buttocks supported, his
heels feeling the silk sheet.
She mouths words, he doesn’t
hear, she smiles, hopes, waits.

He studies her eyes, her lips,
the thin brows, the parted hair.
She gently pulls him to her,
he allows her to move him

near, feels her hand upon
his wrist, her other upon his
narrow back.  He settles uneasy
between her thighs, she opens

to him like a flower, he hesitates,
hands either side of her head,
staring at her eyes, the sparkle,
candle light bright there. She

waits, her buttocks warm against
the silk, sees his eyes sponge
like soak her in, but he stiffens,
becomes arched, looks away,

closes his eyes. She waits,
nothing stirs, his breathing
deepens, his eyebrows rise,
his lips mouth sounds, he

makes motion, coughs, moves
off, lies still stares at the curtains
about the bed, the colour in
the candle’s light. She folds her

legs together, her knees touching,
waiting, gazes at him sideways on,
his profile, pale, his eyes shut tight.
No *** with him, she thinks, no

consummation, the marriage bed
unfed, no ****** bleed, no red rose
plucked, untouched, unfucked.
Then he ups and runs out

the door which closes with a click.
She lays there, her knees bent,
her hands at her sides, her small
******* soften, relax, her eyes stare,

her ears sharp for sounds, none
but whispers from behind the door,
coughs, splutters, soft conversation.
Was that it? they whisper, was that

the consummation?  She lies silent,
unused, unloved or was it just too
much, too soon? She sighs, gazing
at the sky and coin like moon.

Look at that blue sky
she said

as you lay beside her
in the field

behind her house
and she pointed upward

and you followed her finger
as it indicated

the expanse of blue
and white clouds

and a few birds in flight
That cloud formation

seems like angels with harps
and that

she added pointing
further over

Looks like a horse’s head
you nodded and said

And that formation
over there

looks like Miss Brody’s ***
and she slapped your hand

and laughed
and her laughter

carried over the field
and there was that moment

you never wanted to end
like when she kissed

and her tongue protruded
into your mouth

or when she held you close
and you breathed in

her scent
borrowed from her mother

Just a dab
behind the ears

she had said
but that was years before

the cancer had her
but the memory of her

is still here
alive and undead.

She lay beside you
under the apple trees

the bees and butterflies overhead
the glimmer of sunlight

through the branches
and she said

I can smell the apples
from here

and if I close my eyes
I feel I’m in a foreign field

lying in some overseas orchard
and happy beneath the sun

and you turned your head
and said

Am I with you
lying in that orchard

beneath a foreign sun?
and you studied her profile

the shadows dancing
across her cheek

a butterfly just above her head
Sure

she said
As if I’d dream of anywhere

without you by my side
and she reached out a hand

and touched your fingers
with hers and it seemed

a pulse danced
between the fingers

as if love momentarily
could be felt

could be sensed
in the space

between fingers
and riding

in the hearts
and heads

and she turned
to face you

her eyes reflecting
a different sun

and your hand sliding
along her thigh

and she shaking
her head slightly

eased out
a soft sigh.

Don't like dark tunnels
Janice said

it's a tube tunnel
trains come in
and out of it
I said

we were sitting
in the underground
train station
watching trains
come and go
while we waited
for our train
to Waterloo

I keep thinking
of monsters
coming out
she said
breathing fire

no just trains
I said
no monster

she ******* up
her nose
smells
she said

does a bit
I said
does in the cinema
sometimes
especially
in the afternoons
when you get
grown-ups
and some one
hasn't washed
for a while

she waved her hand
in front
of her small nose

her red beret
was on a slant
on her fair hair

when will our
train come?
she asked

when it arrives
I said

she didn't laugh
or smile
but when
will that be?

I looked at a clock
on a wall
3 minutes or so
I said

Gran said
not to get
in people's way
she wasn't going
to let me go

until I said
you were going
with me
and she said
O that's all right then
if Benny's with you

there you go then
I said
your gran's
got her head
on right

she stopped waving
her hand in front
of her nose
and put her hands
in her cardigan pockets

bit cold too
she said

you'd be a right one
to take on a polar trip
wouldn't you?
I said

are you going on
a polar trip?

no not yet
but maybe one day
when I'm grown up
and left school
I said

could I go?
she asked

if you don't moan
all the time
it gets cold
or windy
or short of grub
I said

she looked
at the tunnel
as the sound
of a train
sounded loudly

we stood up
gawking towards
the tunnel end

a wind blew our way
whoosh
and the train came
rushing onto
the platform
like some
big monster in red

(just a train really)
but a big monster
inside her head.

She'd run
from the shelter
of the old

corrugated shed
to the shelter
of the trees

you followed
seeing her ahead
happy to be away

from school
a job lined up  
and you too

glad to be away
from the brain washing
and having that job

at the garage
to begin
and she ran

through the narrow rides
of the wood
knowing you

were behind her
looking back
at you as

she ran
and past
the small pond

and she stood there
looking at it
the pond water

discoloured
by cast away tins
and *******

and she said
not what it used to be
and you stood

beside her looking
at the still pond
the brown water

and she said
I used to come here
as a little girl

and bathe here
with my sister
wish I'd known

you said
before you came
she said

anyway
we were only 8 or 9
as were you

so it wouldn’t have
amounted to much
depressing seeing it

like this
she added
let's go elsewhere

you said
go to the our lake
she smiled

yes you remember
our name
for the large pond  

so you both
walked on
and over

the wooden fences
and across the field
by cows

avoiding cow pats
and over
by the lake

where she sat
on the grass
gazing

at the clear water
the ducks swimming there
fish under

the water's skin
just visible
do you remember

when we first
came here?
she asked

you nodded
we were so
shy together

we just about
found words
to speak

and our fingers
nearly touched
and I blushed

and it was
so innocent
so white

and silky
and that first kiss
that was so magical

so non-******
and she laughed
and you sat beside her

and said
are all first kisses
like that

do you think?
ours was
she said

you thought on it
so unexpected
so unplanned

under
a full moon
lips warming

softly wet
and she turned
to you there

sitting by the lake
and gave another kiss
deeper

longer
more tongue
and warmth

more ******
and sensual
and the ducks

and fish
beneath
the water's skin

cared not
if it was love
or lust

or grace
or sin.

Ingrid hides beneath her bed; her father calling for her, bawling out along the passageway; her mother whimpering; she can hear her, hopes her father won't find her, wants him to go off to work, leave now while his mood is dark and violent. She crouches down, sees the floor of her bedroom, the wooden floorboards, the small carpet stained, a few clothes here and there. The door opens, she sees her big sister's high-heeled shoes walk in the room and turn around. She's gone out, probably knew you were in one of your moods, her sister says. Her father's gruff reply; banging of doors; raised voices; her sister goes out, closes the door. Ingrid spreads her hands flat on the floor. Pushes away dust, looks out for spiders, fears to see one and cry out, have her father running in with his slapping hand at the ready, his dark eyes blazing like fires. She flattens herself out, her eyes on the door, her head to one side, the bed springs against her shoulders, touching her hair. The door flies open, her father black shoes visible, his brown trousers, two legs. Well, she was here a while ago; if I catch her I’ll tan her hide, so I will. He moves stuff on the dressing table, moves about the room, goes to the window and looks out. Where'd she go? Her sobbing mother enters, her two feet showing. She's with that boy from the flats; that Benny. Her father curses, pushes the drab curtains aside. I see him about; his quiff of hair, that fecking smile, the hazel eyes peering; she's not to see him; I don't like him, her father says. Her mother sobs, sits on the bed, pushes the springs down further into Ingrid's shoulders and hair. He's no harm, her mother says; his mother's a decent sort. Her father sighs. Why go with him? What she see in him? Her father bends down and picks up a cardigan from the floor, but doesn't look sideways at Ingrid there; he holds it up to her mother. She’s a lazy cow; look, leaves clothes everywhere.  She's just a nine year old girl, her mother says; she's much to learn. She'll learn it, he says, by my hand, she'll learn. Ingrid stiffens; fears he'll sense her under the bed. She knows he'll have her eventually. The last time he beat her, her had to sit sideways for days, even at school. Benny knew something was up; he always seemed to know. He peered at her; his eyes searching her. Where this time? He asked. She told him. Once he said he'd fire his catapult at her father's backside from the balcony, but she said not too.  He'll blame me, she said, he'll think I set you up. She aches. Her body is aching with staying still. She also wants to go to the toilet; wants to have breakfast. Her father walks around the bed, his black shoes walking slow. Her mother moves on the bed, pushing the springs again. You're too soft on her. I'm not. You are; she gets away with too much.  I do my best. The bed springs push down on Ingrid's head. Well, if you see her when she gets back, tell her I’m onto her; to expect a good hiding. Ingrid cringes. The black shoes walk away out of the room. Her mother sobs, moves back and forth on the bed. Ingrid senses the springs pushing down on her shoulders and head. Her mother rises from the bed, walks to the door, then out of the room, shuts the door. All is silent now as it was before.

Your mother
had brought Helen

home for tea after school
and she had held on

to the handle
of the pram

your mother pushed
and you walked

along side
thinking of whether

to show her
your toy soldiers

and cowboys and Indians
and the guns

that fired
loud banging caps

or whether to just sit
and watch the TV

and eat your tea
and show her nothing

but once you got home
and your mother went off

to the kitchen to prepare
the tea stuff and such

Helen looked at you
and shyly smiled

and said
Can I see your sister’s dolls

and pram
and does she have

a doll’s house
I could play with?

you dismissed the idea
of showing her

the guns that fired caps
or your toy soldier collection

and took her
into the room

where you kept the toys
and pointed to

your sister’s dolls
and the pram

and said
Take care

my sister doesn’t like
people messing

with her stuff
and Helen nodded

and picked up a doll
and held it to her chest

and rocked it
to and fro

and walked up and down
murmuring there there sounds

that echoed softly
around the room

Where’s your sister?
Helen asked

will she mind me
rocking the baby to sleep?

Guess not
you replied

and stood watching her
as she walked

and talked to the doll
in an undertone

and you stood there
hands in pockets

like a father
of an unexpected child

wondering what to say
or do and taking in

her thick lens glasses
and her eyes

seemingly enlarged
focusing on the doll

and the way her head
moved from side to side

so that her plaited hair
went from side to side

and up and down
and she said softly

and suddenly
We may have a baby like this

one day and you had better
say something more

than you are now
or I’ll think

you didn’t want it
and off she walked

up and down the room
and hoped your mother

would come soon
and save you from the fate

of being the father
of a doll with a dodgy eye

and a painted smile
but having a tender spot

for Helen
all the while.

She called through
the cloth of the tent
are you in there?
no

you replied
I'm not
and she laughed
and said

thought we were going
down to the beach?
thought you wanted
to see the sunset?

sure I do
you said
just getting dressed
dressed?

she said
you are naked?
not now
but I was

a few moments ago
****
she said
should have just

unzipped your tent
and poke my head in
too late now Mamie
you said

and you unzipped the tent
and climbed out
and stared around
the camp base

at the bar
and other tents
and the odd
palm tree here and there

thought you were going
to come over to my tent
this afternoon?
she said

didn't know if Fussy Annie
was still there
you said
didn't want to crowd

you both out
she laughed
she's off someplace
looking at mosques

o
you said
wish I'd known
I could have come over

and we could have done
some exploring
of our own
yes

she said
but there you go
that's life
opportunities

come and go
if you miss out
you miss out
anyway let's go

down to the beach
and see this sunset
and so you followed her
down to the beach

her hand holding yours
her fingers gripping
you tightly in case
you ran off

what's she like
Fussy Annie?
you asked
fussy

Mamie said
all the time
she's on about
something or other

not being right
or someone having
did such and such
and o God

the toilets
you should have heard her
ranting about
the two bricks

you have to stand on
to do your business
yes comes as a bit
of a shock to see

those two **** bricks
you said
the beach was reached
the horizon

was like a world
on fire
she kept close
to you

her hip
touching yours
full of unexplored
desire.

Unforgettable.
The tall girl he saw
Getting on the bus

And who then sat down
Opposite him with
Her short skirt and big

Black sunglasses that
Covered her eyes. That
Was last May. He can

Still picture her now
Today: the short skirt,
The blonde hair, the way

The big sunglasses
Reflected their small
Images of him

Sitting opposite.
She never spoke; just
Stared straight ahead her

Focus on something
Beyond him as far
As he could decide.

Maybe she was just
Avoiding his gaze,
Looking over his

Head or shoulder, or
Perhaps something more
Importance caught her

Gaze or interest.
He’d never know, just
Speculation on

An incident of
The past. But he still
Couldn’t get her out

Of his mind. Sometimes
He thought he saw her
On other buses

On different days,
But it wasn’t, it
Was just some who

Wore sunglasses the
Same or a short skirt
Similar in its

Colour or design.
He regrets now not
Speaking or asking

Her name or potted
Biography in
The short time allowed.

He’s not seen her since
Outside of his mind
Or occasional

Dream, just the false hope
Of seeing her once
More someplace with big

Sunglasses, short skirt,
Blonde hair and her bright
Angel looking face.

And she guessed they would
Have told her about
Him soon enough if

They had wanted to,
But they hadn’t, so
That was it, and she

Couldn’t understand
It; the whole **** thing
Was about to fall

Apart and break her
******* fragile heart.

I had one
of those
uninvited
phone calls
the other day:

Hello, Benny?

Yes, speaking.

I see
that the insurance
on your washing machine
is is about
to run out,
would you
be interested
in taking out
a 5 year
insurance plan
with us?

I only rent
the machine,
it's not mine.

Oh, I see,
do they have
the machine
under warranty?

I don't know
and I don't care,
I said,
it's their
machine
not mine.

OK
the guy said,
have a nice day.

What was that
all about?

where the heck
do they get
that information
from?

then get it
wrong?

I must read
1984 again.

Yochana
when Miss G
put on Bach

in the class
on the old
gramophone

young Reynard
next to me
muttered rude

soft comments
what Bach piece
she played us

I don't know
but you there
thin as wire

your black hair
tied in bows
by ribbons

I saw you
watched you move
your head swayed

your fingers played
imagined
piano keys

I watched them
in a dance
Reynard called

you titless
both hands moved
on the desk

I wanted
to hold them
bring each one

finger near
to my lips
so I could

**** music
from each one
gorge on Bach

from your hands
like some new
explorer

searching out
far away
unknown lands.

Mother’d say, don’t go by
How blue a man’s eyes are,
But by the size of his bank

Account, and she thinks on
That now, taking a sip of wine,
Holding a cigarette, some things

You don’t forget, some things
Are branded into the brain,
Especially Mother’s words,

Her philosophy, her way of
Viewing the world. She pauses,
Watches her husband parking

The car from the window, the
Way he walks around it, gives
The door handles a pull, taps

The bonnet like some *****’s
***. Yes, hubby’s got the dough,
Got the big bank account, buys

Her expensive clothes, rings and
Pretty much other things, but love,
Affection, that sitting side by side

Holding hands and kissing sort
Of thing, he just can’t bring, has
No clue what to say or what to do.

Sure he has the connections, the
Right kind of friends, takes her
To parties, to functions, gets her

To meet the Mr Bigs and their hold
On the arm, give a pretty smile, wives,
But he doesn’t give her love, or know

How she feels or if she wants children
Or not or how well she is or if she’s
Got the pox. Sure, he can **** her as

Good as the next guy, give her a car,
A necklace, get her to see Paris, Venice
Or wherever, but he can’t give her that

Deep down sense of being wanted, of
Being needed for who she is, just like
The rest of the wives she knows, an arm

Hanging, pretty smile wearing, well dressed,
Bright eyed wife, but unloved, unneeded
Just another possession for him to have

And hold, with a beautiful complexion,
But with a heart grown bitter and cold.

Laid to rest,
stone in place,
legend chiselled
and name
and words
and such,
flowers
in place.

Laid to rest-
but not,
my son,
for us,
the memories too strong,
too recent ,
to put to sleep or rest.

Waves of it rush
against the shores of self,
digging in deep,
pushing heart
and sense aside,
raising the ghostly
images to sight.

Who spoke last?
Who conversed
in final hours?
How dark the ward.
I helped you
best I could.

Unknowing,
promised
of the morrow returning,
but then too late,
just the comatosed you
to greet, the last
drawn out day of demise.

Laid to rest,
stone in place,
words chiselled,
ashes encased,
buried, flowers,
prayers said.

You,
my son,
stoic by nature,
warrior to the core;
why does
the sun rise?
What was
it all for?

It was Friday
a boring morning
of lessons
geography and maths
and some work
on some king
who had lots of wives
and beheaded a few

after lunch
in the spare classroom
assigned as the sandwich room
I went out onto the field
taking in the sunshine
the blue sky
and others about
on the green grass

boys kicking a ball about
girls sitting in groups
giggling or talking
a few in pairs walking along
a boy here and there
with a girl holding hands
(romance stuff)

some girls with skip ropes
or a ball throwing
between each

I saw Yiska
sitting on the grass
with two other girls
in deep conversation
she stood up
when she saw me
and came over

I have read some
of that book
you gave me
she said
don't understand
some of it

we walked away
from the other girls
they watched us
talking no doubt
what don't you understand?
I asked

copulation
she said
what does that mean?

what do you think it means?

she looked back
at the girls
who were looking our way
and talking

don't know
she said
never heard
the word before

it means
having ****** *******
I said quietly

*******?
she said
I understand ******
but *******
seems too scientific

boys shouted
from across the field
someone had scored a goal
between two jackets
on the grass

a relationship
in a ****** way
I said

she stopped
and gazed at me

the book has some pictures
but it's confusing
she said

have you shown
your parents?
I asked

God no
she said
you want to get me
whacked?

just joking
I said

we walked on again
where did you get the book?
she asked

I found it in a drawer
in an old sideboard
at home
I said
it's quite old
think it was my gran's

the words seem hard
to understand
she said
the pictures
in brown and white

yes I noticed
the one about the baby
in the woman's womb
I said

but what
do you have to do?
she asked
to have a baby?

it says
I said

does it?
she asked

yes many times
in different ways
I replied

she sighed
******* is that it?

I nodded
she looked puzzled

so not just kissing?

no not just that

or touching?
she said

not just touching

we came to the fence
and looked
at the passing traffic

that girl in class said
that if you kiss too much
you get pregnant
Yiska said

no not that
I said
where's the book now?

in the cabinet by my bed
she said

will your mother
see it there?

hope not

does she look
through your stuff?

not as far as I know
Yiska said

she leaned in
and kissed me
warm lips on warm lips
her hands around my neck

I put my hands
around her waist
off across the playing field
a bell tolled
from the school

we pulled apart
and walked back
towards school
an odd beating
within
my fourteen year
old heart.

Carmody said
what did you get
your old man
for his birthday?

well
you said
my sister and I
saved up

what money we could
siphoned off
some of our pocket money
took back

the empty beer bottles
to the off licence
did extra chores
for our mother

and went bought him
some cigarettes
and gave them to him
what did he say?

Carmody asked
said he didn’t smoke
that kind
said they made

his throat sore
that was what he said?
yes and my sister
was upset of course

and went off
to her room to cry
but I just said
but it’s the thought

that counts
and we just thought
you’d smoke the cigarettes
look ok thanks

for the thought
the old man said
and took the packet
and stuffed them

in his pocket
and read
the birthday card
we’d both written him

and put it on the table
and said
how much did you get
on the empty bottles?

so I told him
and he said
they were my bottles
I ought to

have had the money
for them kid
you have
I told him

In the form
of the cigarettes
what did he say
about that?

Carmody asked
he just stared
and took the cigarettes
out and opened them up

and lit one
and inhaled
and coughed
and I thought

good job too
and walked away
and Carmody
nodded his head

and sniggered
and you went off
with him to kick
around the ball

in the playground
at school
and said nothing
much more at all.

Sheep wool entangled
in the barbwire
on the Downs
at the top

and you and Jane
laying there
taking in the sun
and the blue of sky

and white of clouds
the soft grass
beneath you
she pointing

at birds overhead
naming them
laughing
when you got

the name wrong
her moving fingers
the hand waving there
and you talking

of the dullness
of London
by comparison
it unknown to her

the big city
the traffic
the noise
the smell

and she there
beside you
her grey skirt
tucked about her

her white blouse
open at the neck
the impression
of *******

her profile
as you turned
and gazed
the dark hair

embracing
her jaw line
the eyes gazing upward
her white socks

the old shoes
the sight of legs
from shoes
to hem of skirt

the beat of heart
your heart pumping
the sight of her
the closeness

and her voice
in the air your
hand reaching out
to touch her arm

inching outward
your fingertips
and her fingertips
feel and fold

and entangle
and release
and entangle
and she said

that cloud formation
is like an enormous god
opening arms
you looked

and frowned
and that one there
she said
is like an angel

with white wings
you gazed
at her lips moving
that one there

you said pointing
is like Santa Claus
running naked
to the beach

and she laughed
and there was the echo
of her laughter
all over the space

of Downs
her fingers
holding yours
touching

not quite Michelangelo
as art
but at least
some union

of heart
moving heart.

Beyond the pram sheds
Chana rode her bike.

I was with Helen
watching from the balcony
of the flats.

Rides well,
doesn't she?
Helen said.

I watched
as Chana rode
around and around
the pram sheds.

Wish I had a bike,
but my parents
can't afford one,
I said.

Mine neither;
even the doll's pram I’ve got
is from a jumble sale.

Chana rode down the *****
and out of sight.

What about Battered Betty?
where did that doll come from?

My grandmother
gave it to me;
I think it was hers.

Where do you
want to go?
I asked her.

What about the park
and ride on the swings?

Sure, fine.

So we walked
down the stairs
and out through
the Square;
the morning
sunshine warming;
other kids playing
here and there;
the baker's
horse and cart
parked by the wall
of the other flats.

The park was busy;
the swings
were all occupied;
the slide and see-saw
were also engaged.

We waited,
sitting in a seat nearby,
she talking of wanting
a new doll's pram
she'd seen in a shop
and I listening,
taking in
her two plaited bunches
of brown hair;
her thick lens glasses
and us
being there.

Sister Teresa felt the cold evening wind through the cloisters. Shadowy figures sounded near by; the sense of waiting; the held breath; the stillness before the office of Vespers. She refused the wheelchair; wanted to walk along the cloisters to the church. A novice sister held her arm to guide her; Sister Bernadette's young hand on her elbow. Blind now apart from shadows and imagined faces from memory. She sighed. Sensed touch of the novice's hand. Breathed in the evening air; remembered the years of waiting in the cloister; the anticipation; the prepared prayers; the youthful voice gone now, she mused, releasing a breath-like prayer. She recalled Sister Clare's embrace by the wall where the cloister bell-rope hung like a tail. God is my witness and saviour, Sister Maria had said. She's dead too, Sister Teresa, thought, peering through her darkness at the shapes and figures ahead. Was it Jude who had kissed her once or was it more? She wasn't sure. Time distorts, she muttered softly, but none took notice. She breathed the air; sensed the dampness; the evening prayers hung in the air of yesteryear. The novice squeezed affectionately; her whispered voice soft and child-like. Did she need the toilet? Was that what she said? Words carried off in the air like the dead friends of her contemplative life. She shook her head; squeezed shut her eyes until lights flashed behind them like a stormy night. Whether the novice was pretty or not, she had no idea; had no sense of her except the touch of hand or softness of voice. Papa was in his heaven, but Mama where was she? Do not let them touch she had said; men are such creatures. Flesh on flesh; lip to lip. Jude had kissed and lain with her, she thought through her muddled mind. Clare had held; dead and buried; her mole-tilled ground holy still, she wanted to say, but only sighed. Movement. Bodies moved. Sister Bernadette touched her arm; gently prodded onwards; said gentle words; failed to keep hold of; slipped away like soap in a bathtub. She tried to clutch the passing words, but silence returned black and deep as the darkness of her days and nights. Chill in the air. Sighed. The footsteps on stone; the echo of chants surrounding as she moved to the pews reserved once for the lay-sisters, none now, all left or dead and swept away like the dead leaves of autumn. She sat; uttered the prayers; listened for the soft voice of the novice nun; wanted to feel; to hold; to touch. Not too much, not overmuch. God be my witness and saviour, she whispered between prayers and chants, recalling a kiss, an embrace, but not of Judas, not of Judas. She breathed the chill air; imagined Clare was there; imagined Christ's breath on her cheek and brow; a light far off beckoning from a distant hill.

The old monk
limps into Vespers,

his black robes hang
to one side

like an old ship's sails
blown in a harsh wind.

I inhale the smell
of fresh baked bread

and stale bricks
in the afternoon cloister;

she had kissed me
and opened up

like a young blossom
in sharp Spring.

Dom Charles,
bespectacled,

reads from the life
of Mary Tudor,

as the monks ate
in the refectory;

queen's tale
and ****** story.

Chocolates and cigarettes?
Julie says

as you sit in a chair
opposite her

in the rest room
of the hospital

in the psychiatric ward
I thought you’d prefer them

to flowers
you reply

yes
she says

flowers tend to lie
heavy in my gut

and she smiles
and you look at her there

with her dark hair
long but dishevelled

I haven’t brushed my hair
or bathed yet

she says
seeing you look at her

but you can scrub my back
if you want

she says
watching you blush

best not
you say looking away

seeing out the window
a small garden

with summer flowers
but sensing

a slight movement
in your groin

at the mere thought
of her suggestion

how did you find me?
she asks

of all the hospitals
and all the wards

in this area
you managed to walk

into mine
she adds

you make me sound
like Bogart to Bacall

you say shyly
how about a drink later

down the road to the bar?
she says

You’re permitted to drink
while on drugs?

you ask
studying her eyes

and her lips slightly parted
only cola

she says pulling a face
but at least it gets me

out of this place
for an hour or so

you look at her
a small stirring

still taking place
between your thighs

there’s a small room
where they keep brooms

and brushes and such
where we can go

for a quickie
she says

looking at you
studiously

then breaking
into a laugh

at the sight
of your shocked face

some other time
you say

some other place
cigarette?

she asks
opening up

the pack you’d brought
you nod

and she hands you one
between her slim fingers

and you place it
between your lips

and she lights it
with a small red

plastic lighter
and you heave in

and feel the smoke
hit the back

of your throat
she inhales deep

and says
I prefer the ones

that make me float
and you see hollowness

open up in her
and her eyes

become wide open spaces
like cold winter skies.

I probably shouldn't
come this far from home
Fay says

we stand
by Westminster Bridge
gazing over
at Big Ben

it's not far
only a bus ride
from home
besides you've got
to see the world

she seems unsettled
but if Daddy finds out
he'll be mad
because I never asked
his permission

say I took you

that will make it worse
he doesn't like you
she says it softly
looking down
at the Thames

the feelings mutual
but I still like
being with you

she looks pretty
in her pink
flowered dress
and her fair hair
tied in a pony tail

I like being with you
but it's just
he gets mad
if I don't ask
his permission
to do things

if you asked him
he'd not let you go
I say

I know
she says
that's what
I'm afraid of

well don't tell him

he might find out

who's going to tell him?

I don't know
he just seems to know

enjoy the day
forget him
I say
we can go see
Westminster Abbey
and you can say
you went into pray

he'll say it not
a Catholic church
anymore
it doesn't count

what God only listens
to prayers
from a Catholic church?

she smiles
it's what he thinks
not me

forget him
enjoy the now
here together
watching the boats
on the Thames
the bridge
the people passing
the sunshine

she nods
and we walk over
the Bridge to go
visit the Abbey

and maybe later
buy an ice cream each
far from her old man's
eyes and his
narrow minded reach
and eyes so cold
after all
we were just kids
aged 12 years old.

You and Fay got off the bus
and walked towards Waterloo train station

and you said
I often come here

just to see and smell
and hear the steam trains

and she looked about her
at the sights and sounds

and smell of steam off the trains
at the platforms

and she said
I haven’t been here

since my parents took us
to the seaside once

and my father was in a cross mood
all day because we wanted to play

on the beach and he wanted to go
to the pubs and my mother sat there

most of the day watching us
in a solemn silence

and she jump back a little
when a stream engine

blew out loudly nearby
and she laughed

and so did you
and as you stood there

in your faded jeans
and off white tee shirt

and she in her pink
summery dress

she took your hand
in her small hand

and you watched her
out of the corner of your eye

and she seemed to be so alive
and happy and all the dark times

of her father and his moods
and stern punishments

seemed momentarily
to have fled

and a glint of sunshine
and happiness came

and rested there
instead.

Look who’s over
by the school gates
Reynard said
and you looked over

and there was Christina
with her school bag
over her shoulder
and her hands tucked

in the pockets
of her green coat
see you tomorrow
Reynard said

and walked on
giving Christina a stare
as he did most girls
finding them an enigma

yet to be solved
when you got
to where Christina was
she took her hands

out of her pockets
and put a hand
on your arm
I wish I was going

on the school bus
with you
then I could sit next to you
and I could tell you

about myself
and not have to cram
everything into a rush
of words as I do

at school
you looked over
to where the school bus
was waiting

you still had
five minutes
or so before
it took off

and you knew
Fred the driver
always did
a head count

before hand  
don’t you wish
I was there
on the bus too?

she asked
squeezing your arm
with her fingers
you turned

and looked at her
sure I do
you said
but you live here

and I live miles away
I know
she said
and I miss you

once your bus goes off
and I know
I won’t see you
until the following day

and the weekend is worse
because then
I don’t see you
for two whole days

other kids
passing through
the school gates
stared at you both

and Hill said
come on
or you’ll miss
the bus

and he laughed
and moved on
and Christina stared
after him and said

what’s his problem?
and you said
oh he hasn’t been born yet
he gets this way

and she laughed
and said
maybe I’ll come
on the country bus

to your village
and we can meet?
sure that’d be good
you said

and her eyes lit up
and she smiled
and leaned
towards you

and gave your cheek
a peck
and you said
look I got to go

and you took her hand
and gave it
a quick kiss
then turned

and walked quickly
towards the bus
knowing her eyes
were following

your every step
and that maybe
she dreamed
of you at night

and imagined you
beside her
and her dolls
and Teddy Bear

and you in turn
maybe imagined
at night
you too were there.

Can't get over
missing the first death;
we were there
for the second.

Who failed
and what failed?
What the last words?
What last thoughts
did you have
when you slipped away
that first time around?  

We were there,
but you were in coma;
eyes shut;
breathing shallow;
machines flashing
and making
their technical noise.

We were there waiting.
Waiting for you
to come around,
waiting for you
to open your eyes,
waiting for a recovery,
waiting holding
your hands and arms,
kissing your forehead,
kissing your cheek.

We waited for time to heal,
waiting to hear
your laughter,
to see your smile,
to hear your soft words
on your breath.

We waited in hope,
unknowing,
we waited for death.

Enid waits
in her room
shivering

listening
for the time
and the sound

her dad leaves
home for work
her thin cloth

white nightdress
providing
no close warmth

her body
screams with pain
discipline

disciplined
her dad said
half hour back

beating her
when he's gone
she'll breakfast

(her mother
will provide)
but for now

she just waits
by the door
listening

feeling cold
her stomach
now groaning

she'll not tell
anyone
but Benny

the boy who
lives downstairs
will ask her

had breakfast?
and he'll look
for bruises

of colours
and he'll know
her father

has had her
she listens
the old white

radio
plays music
some Mozart

then its off
and silence
she cringes

holds herself
then he's gone
the door slams

she opens
her room door
and peers out

her mother
by the stove
one black eye

and thick lip
in the sink
water goes

from the tap
drip drip drip.

I slide the silver painted six shooter
into the holster on my right hand side.
I stand there arm arched, hand ready
to go for the gun. I push my cowboy

hat back away from my cool forehead.
The bad guys are circling me. Today
I’m Wyatt Earp, the day before I was
Bill Hickok, shot in the back while

playing cards with some blonde ******.  
One of the bad guys goes for his gun,
I go for my gun before his is out of
his holster, I’ve got him between the

eyes, then the other before he can say:
What the heck, then the other before
his gun reaches to his eye. I blow along
the barrel as they do in films, put it

back in my holster. My mother irons
clothes in the other room. My sister
plays with dolls, in the long hallway.
None heard the gunshots inside my head;

all bad guys are dead.   I light up a
thin sweet cigarette and light it on an
imaginary match struck on the wall.  
Half hour later I see Ingrid on the

balcony. She talks of going to the
park to go on the swings and slide.
She has her brown hair held in place
with hair clips, mild buckteeth, brown

gravy eyes gaze at me. What you been
doing? she asks. Cleaning up the West.
West what? She says. Wild West, I reply.
She nods, uncertain, uninterested. Shot

three baddies. Bang, bang, bang. I push
back my thumb and point *******.
I am Wyatt Earp today. You were Bill
Hickok yesterday, she says, looking at

my ******* aiming at her narrow chest.
What happened to Hickok? She asks.
He 's dead. Oh, she mouths.  I put my
fingers away in my trouser pocket. Swings?

She says. I guess. So we walk off together
down the stairs, she wearing a red flowery
dress, white ankle socks, black plimsolls.
I look down the stairs well for any bad guys

lurking, gun ready in my trouser pocket,
Bowie knife in the belt around my waist.
She talks of a new skipping rope her mother
has bought her, I see no one lurking, no baddies

waiting with guns out. We walk through the
Square, out in the open, my ******* posed
for action, my Bowie knife ready to throw,
off we walk towards the park we slowly go.