Fay was on the bus
I was on
we both got off
at the cinema

in New Kent Road
how was school today?
I asked
as we walked along

to the Zebra crossing
passing the fish shop
the hairdressers
O you know

how school is
she said
some days
you don't mind it

some days
you hate it
today I hated it
why was that?

I asked
we stood
on the edge
of the pavement

at the crossing
Sister Agnes poked me
in the back
with her

steel hard finger
because I had forgotten
the capital of Peru
Fay said

as if it mattered
as if the Peruvian people
would lose
any sleep over that

we crossed the road
to Meadow Row
it's all part
of the brain-washing process

I said
I try to empty
my brain of it
as soon as I can

after school
she laughed
and put her fingers
to her mouth

I shouldn't laugh
my daddy says
laughter is how
the Devil gets in

and those
who make people laugh
are the Devil's helpers
we walked down

Meadow Row
pass
the bombed out houses
on the left

the empty windows
the boarded up
doorways
I guess your old man

is a bit of a sourpuss
I said
sourpuss?
she said frowning

I liked it
when she frowned
her blonde eyebrows
seemed to meet

in the middle
and the lines appeared
on her forehead
a grouch

I said
she laughed again
stop it
I shouldn't laugh

at least not
at my daddy's expense
it won’t cost him
nothing

I said
I joke for free
we passed
the public house

there was a piano playing
and some woman
was singing
Fay looked at me seriously

I mustn't be seen
beyond here
with you
Daddy says

you are a bad influence
Fay said
am I?
Daddy says you are

she said
do you think I am?
I asked
no I don't

she said
that's ok then
I said
we paused

by the fresh fish shop
and looked
at each other
don't forget

to find out
the capital of Peru
I said
I know now

she said
Sister Agnes poked
Lima into my back
that's one way

to impress knowledge
on a kid
I said
she rubbed

her shoulder
yes
I shall call this
my Lima shoulder

she said smiling
see you around
I said
(although

she only lived
in the flat upstairs)
and she leaned in
and kissed my cheek

and went off ahead
over Rockingham Street
up towards the flat
I touched

my 12 year old cheek
maybe
I said
I’ll not wash

that bit
for a whole week.

It took you some time to get
Where you are; no overnight
Fall or idle thought to drop out
Or taste how the other half lived,
Although now you know,
But a collection of erroneous
Decisions or the wrong people
At a bad time, or maybe that child
You lost and husband quitting,
Was all too much for you
To soldier on in the complex
World of the here and now.

Shelter is shelter, you mumble,
Sipping the warm soup, the memory
Of the last good supper long forgotten
Or put aside in that room marked
Verboten, and the trainers, yes,
The trainers fit the feet well,
Best for ages, you smilingly mutter,
The rest are rags, but they keep me
Warm at the best of times, which
Are few, you add, sensing the chill
Of the wall against your back;
Maybe Buddha would not pass by
Unnoticing, maybe he will give
Smile or coin or kind words
Like oil for rusting joints.

You sit and stare and muse
And feel the wind whisper,
Sense the passers-by look down
At you, feel their eyes, their
Muttered utterances, their shakes
Of head, their tut-tutting, and just
Remembering now your mother’s
Soft hand brushing your childhood
Head, soothing the poverty from brow
And cheek, maybe that’s what you want
On this street, maybe it’s her that you seek.

You remember that dame
who didn’t want to talk to
you and then later she did

by which time you had met
some other chick who really
turned you on? Joey said well

she’s like that with most guys
she thinks it gives her a kind
of power you know the type

was probably kept under her
old man’s thumb or maybe her
brothers kept her in her place

and she wants to break out or
in whatever the case may be
so I shouldn’t take it to heart

Bud don’t let it get to you
anyway if you see her again
give her the cold shoulder or

spin her some yarn that you
only go out with good looking
dames and Bud looked over at

Joey who was smoking a cigar
and holding a glass of beer and
said I know dames I was born

from one and I had four sisters
all of whom were nice chicks
and really made my youth one

hell of a heaven if that ain’t a
contradiction so I don’t need
no lessons on dames see I know

them and so Joey shrugged his
shoulders and sipped his beer
and drew heavy on his cigar

and said so be it next thing
you’ll be telling me is you’ve
slept with your **** ma.

You entered the bar
at the base camp
outside Tangiers

the morning sun was out
like a fresh orange
on a blue plate of sky

some old Moroccan
was in a corner
playing a guitar

your mouth felt like
the inside
of an Arab’s sandal

Mamie was sitting
at the bar
on a wonky stool

you woke up then?
she said
after last night
thought you’d be out
for the count all day

no I can take
a good night out
you replied
taking the stool
next to her
and breathing in
the hashish air
and smell of salt
from the beach

the guy behind the bar
asked what you wanted
and you said
*** and coke
and a salad roll
and he went off

and you looked at Mamie
her tight curls
and snub nose
and interesting
fall into me
eyes

what time
did you leave my tent
last night?
you asked

when your tent companion
turned up and almost
got on top of me

ah yes
sorry about that
Will does tend to come
at awkward times
I think he went off
to a trip to Marrakesh
in the yellow
ex army truck

almost crushed me
she said

good while it lasted
then eh?

no it wasn’t
she said
besides you
were out for the count
after we did things

was I?

you know you were

don’t recall a thing
you said

thank you Mr. Romantic
she moaned

o come on Sweet thing
you know it
meant a lot to me
having you near

she looked at
the old Moroccan
playing the guitar
I am glad
he doesn’t sing too
she said

she sipped her Bacardi
and sat silent

the guy brought
your *** and coke
and salad roll
and you began
to eat and sip

can I have some
of your roll?
she asked

sure
you said
and broke off
half of the roll
and gave it to her

thanks
she said and smiled

you felt her knee
touch yours at the bar
naked flesh
on jean cloth
her jean shorts
ended
at her high thigh

you remembered kissing
that thigh
the night before
amongst other things

the smell of her perfume
and the mustiness
of the tent
the faraway voices
and guitar sounds

some party
at the beach
the night before

hoping no scorpion
had crept in
during the day

feeling her
beneath you
and the sound of sea
far off
and sight
of moon’s glow
through tent’s skin

some one sang
another laughed
some one puked up
away off
too much to drink

but you and Mamie
had a good night
you mused
I think.

At the back
of the brick bomb shelter
out of window view
on Saturday morning

before the matinée
Fay pulled up the hem
of her yellow dress
to show Baruch

the bruises
and red marks
her father had made
and all because

she didn't know
the Credo in Latin
all the way through
Baruch stared quickly

then she let down the hem
and said
don't tell no one
else I'll be for it

I won't say a word
he said
what the heck
is the Credo?

she looked at him frowning
you don't know?
no idea
he said

it's the I Believe prayer
and we Catholics
are supposed to know it
all through

but my father
wanted me to know it
all in Latin
but I couldn't get it all

and he got mad
and punished me
she said
I believe what?

he asked
I believe in God
the Father and so on
she said

I'm Jewish
Baruch said
we have our own prayers
not that I can recall

any of them
I do
she said
but Latin is hard

and the nuns say it
all the time in their prayers
and one nun hit me
with a ruler for mistakes

and said I was lazy
Baruch shrugged his shoulders
glad I aren't Catholic then
he said

now what about
the cinema matinée?
you coming?
my father said

I was to stay in
all weekend and practice
but my mother said
go and enjoy

so you are coming?
he asked
Fay nodded
yes guess I will

what about your old man?
he's away for the day
in Liverpool
and Mum said

she'd cover for me
good for her
he said
she pulled her dress tidy

and he pushed his fingers
through his dark brown hair
and they climbed over
the metal fence

surrounding the grass
and bomb shelter
and walked under
the railway bridge

and up the narrow road
behind the cinema
Baruch in his jeans
and red cowboy shirt

his silver looking
six shooter
tucked in his belt
walking beside her

looking out for bad guy
or Injuns
making sure
none scalped him or her

with their tomahawks
riding their invisible horses
across the bomb site
but none came

so he could relax
knowing she
and he
would be all right.

Batel was showing me
how to fold up
my shirt sleeves
although I knew how

I liked her fingers
touching my arm
her eyes searching me
as she did it

got it?
she asked
sure it looks easy
when you do it

she walked off smiling
and I watched her
wiggling backside
move away

I carried on
with my work
at the nursing home
making beds

tidying up
the rooms
taking some
of the old guys

to the lavatory
or for a bath
or talking with them
about the old days

about their war
trenches
bombs
dead friends

mud
lice
and old Sidney
singing the Red Flag

loudly as he bathed
his croaky voice
very moving
and I sang along

to make him happy
but it was Batel
who came to me later
and said

how's the shirt sleeves?
they’ve come down again
I said
shall I do them

again for you?
that'd be good
you are flirting
she said smiling

I’m working
I said
yes
on me

she said
as if I would
I said
she folded up

my shirt sleeves
and I sensed her fingers
on my skin
maybe you could

come to my place
she said
for a coffee sometime?
you're married

I said
I’m asking to coffee
not to marry me
she said

ok
I said
be good
and she went off

wiggling that backside
of hers
Hey Benny
old George

called to me
take me to the bog
I'm in need
of a ****

ok George
I’m on my way
and I thinking of Batel
and a promise of a kiss.

The bomb site
is the best place
for chickweed
Helen said

so you went
to the one off
Meadow Row
and gathered up

handfuls of the stuff
and took them back
to your flat
to feed the budgerigar

you were looking after
for the old couple
along the balcony
who had gone away

for a few days
you watched
as Helen poked
some through the bars

of the bird cage
with her fingers
and you noticed
her tenderness

and determination
as she pushed it
through the narrow
gauged bars

her tongue poking out
of the corner
of her mouth
her eyes focusing

through her
thick lens spectacles
does it sing?
she asked

don't think so
you replied
least I’ve not
heard it do so

she talked to the budgie
in her little girl voice
and sang a few lines
of a hymn

the budgerigar
just stared at her
and walked up
the other end

of the perch
with a beak full
of chickweed
as she sang to it

she held her head
at an angle
and one of her plaits
of brown hair

hung downwards
do you want
to come back
to my place afterwards?

she said
you can help me
bath my doll Battered Betty
and then

Mum'll get us
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping
and a mug of tea

you had wanted to go
to the bomb site
for half an hour
to gather ammunition

for your catapult
but she had that look
about her face
that made you say

sure why not
and so after poking through
the remaining chickweed
and washing your hands

under the cold water tap
in the kitchen
and drying them
on the towel hanging

behind the door
you walked down
the concrete stairs
and out into the Square

and down the *****
into Rockingham Street
where you walked past
the coal wharf

where coal trucks
were being filled
with sacks of coal
and by

the Duke of Wellington pub
where you used to get
bags of crisps
and bottles of Tizer

on Sunday evenings
then under
the railway bridge
and she talked

of some boys at school
who called her 4 eyes
and fish face
O don't mind them

you said
they just can't see
your beauty
too blind

dumb idiots
do I?
she said
have beauty?

sure you do
you said
putting on
your serious face

never seen a girl
with more
and she smiled
and gazed at you

through the thick lens
of her spectacles
showing the large
brown conker like eyes

when you got to her place
her mother
was just finishing
bathing a young kid

so she let Helen
have the water after
to bath Betty
and gave her

an old towel to dry with
you helped her
prepare the doll
but she took off

the baby clothes
an old cardigan
that had seen
better days

and a creamy dress
with small buttons
at the back
which were a hell

of a job to undo
and a pair of
doll *******
that fitted tightly

and were a struggle
to get off
well
Helen said

the water's nice
and soapy
so we can wash her
as it is

and so you watched
as she dipped the doll
under the water
(it might have drowned

had it been for real)
and held it there
until bubbles came out
of the neck

and she lifted Betty out
and wiped her over
with a flowery face cloth
and Betty’s eyes

opened and closed
and you helped dry
and studied
(as boys tend to do)

the seriousness
of Helen about the task
the tongue hanging
from the side

of her mouth
her eyes focussed
the head to one side
like an animal

trying to understand
a human command
and the small hands
working with calm concern

just as you'd seen
your mother do
when she made a cake
or rolled out pastry

for a pie
once the doll was dry
and dressed
she put Betty back

in the tiny cot
her dad had made
from an orange box
and her mother said

sit down
and I’ll get you
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping

and mugs of tea
and off she went
to the kitchen
humming some hymn

and you looked at Helen
sitting there
with her plaits of hair
and big eyes

showing no fear
and a smile
from ear
to lovely ear.

Bath times as a child were
a mixture of joy and fear,
Lulu remembers, rubbing
her neck dry after her bath,
holding her long hair out of
the way with her spare hand.

You must wash under the arms
and your neck and between
your legs, her mother said to
her as a child, leaning over her,
pouring hot water over her head,
feeling she was drowning, she
remembers, sitting on the edge
of the bathtub, almost seeing
her mother standing there with
her usual critique and that wet
hand slapping her legs or hand
if she missed an area of skin.

Lulu rubs under her arms, raises
her hand upward as if reaching
for the moon or stars. As she
leans forward to rub her feet,
pushing the towel between toes,
she recalls her putting her feet
into her mother’s lap as she dried
them with harsh rubs, pushed
the towel between toes roughly,
causing wittingly or unwittingly
the long after remembered pain.

Her mother, hard as granite,
with reddened hands and stern
stare, cursed in the bed of her final
days, glared at Lulu as she blanket
washed her mother in the last weeks
before death came for her and carried
her off with her foul words filling the air.

Lulu lays the towel over her lap, sitting
still she leans her elbows on her legs
and hides her face in her palms, wishing
her mother could have gone out not
with curses or swear words, but psalms.

Fenola watched
as Eileen bathed.
She took in
the hand

moving
the lathered sponge
over the contours
of the body,

moving between ****
like some
venture ship of old,
moving down

the belly,
beneath the soapy water
to the pleasure dome,
then out again

around the neck
and under chin,
then whole body
over once again.  

She knew that body well,
each inch of flesh,
each orifice,
each smell,

each loving touch.
Even the thought
pleased her
overmuch.  

Eileen looked over
where Fenola sat,
on stool,
in bathrobe,

with feet
on mat.
Come on in,
she said,

room enough for two,
you rub my back,
I’ll rub yours
and other places too.

Fenola thought awhile,
took in her eyes
that gazed,
the smile

that spread,
the memory
of the afternoon
in bed,

the positions held
and played,
the *** ensuing.
Eileen pointed

to the soapy bath,
come in,
she said
with **** laugh.

Fenola stood up
from the stool,
disrobed,
set it aside,

stepped in the bath
and sat down,
the water engulfing.
Somewhere

from the other room,
Ravel played
from hifi speakers,
Bolero

or some such piece,
the sound touching
the bathroom walls
with steam and scent.

The girls rubbed
and scrubbed
and laughed
in soapy water,

each one
like a siren
of the sea
or Neptune’s daughter.

Anne was in the bath
splashing soapy water
over her small *******
you were by the door

looking anxiously about
what if some one comes in?
you asked
the doors locked

she said
but we’re not meant
to lock the door
when we’re in the bath

you said
meant?
you’re all full
of laws and rules

Skinny Kid
laws and rules
are meant
to be broken

that’s what
gives us
our freedom
you looked

at her damp black hair
her *******
like two wet piglets
I shouldn’t be here

you said
you dragged me
in here
she threw

two handfuls of water
over her face
spitting out
what got in

her mouth
shut the moaning Kid
it’s not every
10 years old kid

who gets to watch
a woman bath
you’re 12
you said

well a 12 year old woman
bath then
she said
taking hold

of a sponge
and washing
under her arms
where dark patches

of hair grew
I ought to go
you suggested meekly
no I might need you

to help me
out of the bath later
I can’t stand
on one ******* leg

can I
she said  
now get your
skinning backside

over here
you moved slowly
from the door
to the bath

and watched her reluctantly
wash between
her thighs
you can scrub my back

she said
I can’t reach behind
without rolling over
and almost

******* drowning
she handed you
the soapy sponge
and you rubbed

her back
with one hand
trying to look away
not notice

not to take it all in
lovely
she sighed
lovely Kid

and you scrubbed harder
and then handed her
back the sponge
and stood back

looking at the steamed up window
thin rivulets of water
running down
the frosted glass

now help me
get up and out
she said
and pass me a towel

you held her hand
as she heaved herself up
and she stood there
like a one legged Venus

and you gave her
the white towel
from the chair
and helped her out

on to the floor
making wet foot marks
as someone rattled
the handle

and called through
the bathroom the door.

Mum says she can't
afford for me
to have a hula hoop
Helen says

as I meet her
by Baldy's shop
early Saturday morning
but I have had a go

on my friend's
not that I'm
very good at it
she says

but it would have been
good to have had my own
o come on
I say

it's a hoop of plastic
and you put it
around your waist
and do a wiggle

of your body
and it goes round
continuously around
your waist

if you're lucky
I say
that's nothing
to mope about

she stands
by the side
of the shop
looking up towards

the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street
but I did like
having a go

she mutters
I'd like to ride a horse
like the Lone Ranger
but I wouldn't want

to own a horse
I say
where'd I put it
if I did?

I'd love a horse
she says
white one
with a long

hairy tail
and she dreams
for a moment or two
about the horse

but you're right
she says
where to put it?
we walk down towards

the post office
to post a letter
of her father's
and then walk along

the Newington Causeway
what colour horse
would you like?
Helen asks

black shiny black
I say
she talks of her brother
dropping her doll

Battered Betty
and an arm
coming off
and how her dad

managed to
fix it again
but it was
back to front

and he had
to take it off
and put it
the right way around

and she's
at home resting
Helen says
resting after

the operation
and we come to
the New Kent Road
and walk along

to the Trocadero cinema
and pay out money
for the morning matinee
and we sit

half way back
ready to watch
the cartoon
and black and white

Batman film
then the big feature film
which I hope
won't be

a cowboy film
with kissing in it
which really
gets my goat

and Helen sits
next to me
waiting for the lights
to go out

still talking
about her doll
and the arm
and one eye

I watch the screen
not wanting to know.

No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as

Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when

The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.

No child ought to see
Its mother battered;
It leaves behind to
Stew in mind the wrong
Impression. But young
Ceili did, all too
Often; her father’s
Fist through the tense air,
Almost unseen, yet
Captured by youthful
Eyes, keen to view, as

Young eyes are: the red
Bloodied mouth, the split
Lip, the blackened eye
The bruised jaw, the hurt
Huddled body on
The hard kitchen floor;
And if pushed to the
Back of the mind, it
Soon crawled out to scare
And torment her when

The lights went out, and
The high screams and shouts
Replayed themselves in
Her ears, over and
Over, like the stuck
Needle on that old
78 record
Her father played when
Drunk, of Joseph Locke,
As he sat in his
Chair that would go back
And forth and then rock,
Slow rock and slow rock.

Joey sees her strolling
up the beach, young girl,
smoking a cigarette, been

in for a dip, her legs all wet,
aged 9 or 10, scanning the
sands and crowds, hair

blowing across her face,
her eyes dark, scowling,
he follows her barefoot

track wondering where
her parents are, where
she’d got the smoke,

the stance, the stare of
her giving the beach a glare.
Joey ponders as she turns

and looks back towards the
sea, the cigarette held between
fingers, the smoke rising,

then she waves a hand,
puts her head to one side,
and then Joey spots them,

the parents, he presumes,
the woman a long haired,
sun kissed ***** swaying

her hips and broad *** along
the sands, and the man,
holding hands, a beefcake,

suntanned, puffing a cigar,
gazing at the young girl,
presumably his daughter,

like one sizing up a gift horse,
letting out language and
words loud and course.

Joey watches them meet
up and walk up the beach,
each one kissing each,

then the older woman
goes off alone, as girl
and beefcake stroll to

the sidewalk and go off
and out of sight, leaving
Joey to sit and muse

and watch the sands
and sea, a slight breeze
tousling his hair, thinking

of the girl’s fate, her life,
although she isn’t there.

We made out on the beach;
in sand dunes,
not far from
the Mediterranean's reach.

After we lay
looking up
at the moon
and stars,
listening to
the sea's rush
on the sand
and a guitar
and singing
from the camp base party.

Wasn't it Pascal
who said infinite spaces
frightened him?
Miriam said.

Not fear
as we mean fear,
more an awe
at the infinity
of it all;
the stars and such,
I said.

Is kind of awesome;
makes you feel
kind of insignificant
in comparison.

That's what Pascal felt,
I think.

She put her hands
behind her head;
looked around her.

I wonder
if there is
a God?

Wonder is all
we can do;
either we think
He's there
or we don't;
no proof
either way.

She turned
and stared at me;
her hands still
cupping her head.

You won't tell anyone
what we did?
she said.

Of course not,
just us and ours.

She smiled;
unleashed her hands
and put a hand
on my shoulder.

It wasn't planned;
kind of spontaneous.

Yes, like buds
opening in Spring;
like day follows night.

She smiled again.

First time
I’ve had ***
on the sand.

I ran a hand
over her ****,
skimpy shorts,
warmth there.

A sound of music
from base camp
hung in the air.

Lydia's father said
she could go with you
to Waterloo railway station
mind the roads though

he said(in his
sober moments
he could be quite
considerate)

and not too near
the edge
of the platform
can't have you

falling in front
of a train
so you took a bus
to Waterloo station

both sitting at the rear
of the bus
on the side seats
having paid

the conductor the fare
and sitting there
watching
the passing views

she in her pale
blue dress
her dark straight hair
pale features

thin arms and legs
you thinking
of the steam engines
the power

and the puff of smoke
grey white
and she thinking
of her big sister

coming home
in the early hours
puking in the bog
her mother giving one

hell of a loud scream
of abuse
and her father saying
O give the girl a chance

and Lydia turning over
in the double bed
dreading her sister's
arrival stinking of sick

hanging off
the side of the bed
with a bucket beside
throwing up

what was once inside
the bus arrived
and you got off
and you said

hang on to my hand
we'll cross together
and so she held
your hand

her thin bony fingers
wrapped about yours
her hand cold
thin nails chewed

got to keep an eye
on you
your old man said
you said

and you crossed
running to avoid
the rushing traffic
and once across

she said
that man next to me
on the bus
put his hand

on my thigh quickly
but then we got off
and I didn't know
what to say

she added
you should have told me
you said
she looked anxious

and bit her lip
no matter now
too late
but if you see him again

tell me
and we'll get
the ******
you said

she nodded
and so you walked
into the station
past crowds of people

and porters
pushing trolleys
of luggage or mail
by the tall copper  

with hands behind
his back
and on to the platform
and took a seat together

to watch trains
and hear the sounds
and smell the acrid
smoke and engines

come and leave
sense the overpowering
sounds of released steam
and whistles blown

and flags waved
and passengers
boardings
and disembarking

and you taking
a side view of her
sitting there
anxiety

in the features
of her face
her hair straight
and well brushed

she unaware
you gazed
and took it all in  
and she thinking

of her sister's moans
and occasional vomiting
and she hardly sleeping
and now here

watching trains
you beside her
in your short
sleeved jumper

and cowboy shirt
and jeans
and sniffing in
the smell of smoke

and steam
and listening
to the engines
start up

and sense
the thrill of power
in the huff and puff
and she for once

happy just being there
far from her sister's snores
and her brother's tease
here to be

with you and be
as she please.

That is where the Torney’s live,
You mutter to the room, staring from
The window at a house through
The winter trees, I’ve played there
Many a time before that happened,
You add, your voice almost a sigh,
Your hands laid flat on the windowsill,
Feeling the smooth wood beneath your palm.

You’ve just that moment arrived to stay
With your aunt and have run to the room
You always stay in and nothing has changed:
The white flowered curtains are drawn back,
The bed made with clean stiff starched linen,
The same picture on the wall of ducks
On a pond dusted and cleaned,
And the same view of the house beyond
The wintry trees and the grey cold sky.

You told no one about what happened
At the Torney’s; let nothing slip, kept
Your small mouth shut and sealed as you
Had promised, but you no longer go
And play at the Torney’s now, and even
Though aunt asks why you make excuses
And only stand and stare unable to forget
What happened in that cold house there.

Polly wants to sleep more,
but the bell
from the church
tells it's time
to get up.

Susie's beside her,
just beginning to wake,
opening her eyes.

She smiles that stupid smile,
Polly thinks,
remembering her cold feet
against her legs
in the night,
her arms about her waist.

If only it was Master George's
hands about her waist,
his feet on her legs.

But he is at war,
some cold wet trench.

Susie sits up
says something
about wanting to turn over
and go back to sleep.

Polly tries to push thoughts
of the day ahead
from her mind.

A maid's work
is never done.

Fires to start,
cleaning to begin,
breakfasts to help prepare,
on beck and call.

If only Master George
was home,
she could look forward
to his bed at night,
his arms about her,
his lips on her skin.

Susie looks at Polly.
She had managed
to get her arms
around Polly's waist,
feel her skin on hers.
She had wanted
to kiss her neck,
but refrained.

Temptations always there.
Watching her undress at night
getting ready for bed,
seeing her standing there,
semi bare, waiting there.

She remembers her lips
being just inches
from Polly's back,
her lips wanting to settle
on Polly's shoulder.

Polly sits up,
pushes the blankets back,
and sits on the edge
of the double bed.

Feet dangle, hands in lap.
The chill air about her.
The wash basin
on the washstand.

Break the ice in the jug,
cold wash.
*** first
in the chamber ***
under the bed.

Susie watches Polly's back,
the way her body
narrows in at the waist,
her bottom on the bed,
her hands in the lap.
She sighs softly.

Polly gets out
the chamber ***
and squats.

Susie looks away.
Closes her eyes.
She can hear
the musical sounds
of water on metal ring.

She kissed Polly's arm once
(pretended she was sleeping)
Polly pushed her lips away,
muttered words.

If only she'd let her
kiss her just the once.
She could store it away
and bring it out
and relive it each day.

Polly stands up
and goes  
to the washstand
and breaks the ice
in the jug,
pours water
in the basin,
washes quickly.

Susie watches,
eyes searching Polly,
taking in each
aspect of her,
each inch of skin.
If only Polly would relent
and let her in.

Polly dries
on the rough
white towel,
face, neck,
arms and hands.

She peers out
of the attic window.
Cold dawn.
Light beginning.

If only Master George
was in bed
instead of Susie,
if only,
then she wouldn't be
so fed up
and bed time lonely.

Guess where I slept
last night?
Lydia asks me

no idea
I say

the cot bed again
as my sister
and her Spiv boyfriend
wanted the bed
and I was turfed out
and Gloria

-her big sister-

said Mum said
she could as the boyfriend
has been kicked out
of his digs
and he needs a bed
for a few nights

we cross over
the New Kent Road
by the Zebra Crossing
the sky is overcast
dark clouds

and later while
I was supposed
to be asleep  
Gloria says
are you asleep Lydia?

I pretended
to be asleep
and my eyes closed
facing the wall
my backside
sticking out
as its too small for me

she's asleep
Gloria told her boyfriend

good
he says

and I heard funny noises

what funny noises?
I ask

odd sounds
like the Spiv
is trying suffocate her

I know she's a pain
in the ****
but he doesn't have
to try and suffocate her

but I said nothing
just pretended
to be sleeping
then it gets even nosier
and Gloria says to him
more more
and I thought
more what?

but I never asked
I just guessed
he was giving her
some sweets or something

we stop in front
of the ABC cinema
and look at
the small photos
outside showing
what film is on

isn't that Marilyn Monroe?
she asks
in the photos

yes it is
I say

so what do you think
about sharing sweets
at bedtime?
she asks me
do all people do that
who sleep in the same bed
share sweets?

I guess so
I say
but my brother
and I don't
we just sleep
after nights are out

but she says
I wish I knew what
the fight was all about.

Sonya lay on the bed in the Parisian hotel room. It was a small room with an adjoining bathroom, a bidet and toilet, with French windows that opened out so one could see and hear the busy streets of Paris below. The windows were open and sounds came into the room with a summery warm air. She lay there in a blue skirt and  white blouse; her feet bare, her legs curled up in a fetal position; she wore nothing underneath, she seldom did; it gave her a sense of daring, of a hidden freedom. Benedict had gone out for cigarettes and a breath of fresh air as he called it. She had a book in her hands. Kierkegaard's Either /Or. Her favourite philosopher. He kept her mind fresh; gave her life a direction. She looked down at another book by her side: Benedict's Dostoevsky novel: Crime and Punishment. It had a page marker about half way through. She could have gone out with him, but she wanted time alone, time to reflect on her life at that moment. She lay her book beside her. She thought of her husband on business in New York and her two sons in boarding school and not due home until the present term ended. Her husband Erik knew she was going to Paris, but he thought she was going alone to research on her proposed book on Zola. Benedict was in Paris on vacation and having met Sonya in a wine bar near her home when Erik was away for the weekend and the sons at school, and after a deep conversation and feeling low, she and Benedict made love in her bed at home, and arranged the trip to Paris between them. Erik was a lousy lover who had become increasingly lousier, and they seldom had *** as he was always busy, and she not in the mood. But Benedict was different; he made *** exciting again, made the whole process something alive and daring, and not just a set out process of mild urges. She lay on her back with her legs out straight reaching for the end of the bed...Benedict bought cigarettes at a small shop in a side street and spoke in English as his French was almost non-existent. The woman who served him understood him well enough and they talked of London where she had stayed for six months few years before. He loved Paris. The whole city seemed alive and full of history and art and literature. No one knew him here; there was almost no chance of him meeting anyone he knew here or who knew Sonya. A sense of freedom invaded him. He and Sonya had had *** that morning and he needed to get out to buy cigarettes and breath in the Parisian air. She was an exciting lover; willing to explore different angles and approaches to ***. The night before had been one long episode of ****** games and experiences and moment of just laying there catching their breath and reading to each other from their own books, then *** again and again. And there was the factor that she wore no underclothes, so that when they went out to a restaurant, they both were aware of this factor, and he got a kind of kick knowing, and she got a thrill knowing that she was free, and walking out on a limb of acceptable behaviour and dress code...Sonya wished that Benedict would come back again soon. She wanted him, wanted to make the most of their time together, their days of freedom to be together, and eat and drink and have *** as often as they wished, and for as long as they wished, without fear her husband would be home at a certain time or that neighbours would see them together and tell Erik. She pulled up her skirt and lay there as if waiting the return of her lover, letting herself feel the freedom of laying so, of not having to worry about her husband walking in on her as he nearly did one late afternoon when she lay on their bed bringing herself to a poor organism...Benedict sat on a seat in a small cafe smoking and sipping from a coffee. He would return to the room after his coffee and smoke. Later they would go out for a meal, and see the city, and feel the history of the place about them. He knew it would come to an end in a few days, and she would be back with her husband and her boring life, and he back to his job, and in his own place sharing with others. Make the most of. Take to the limits. Explore and live and enjoy...Sonya wondered where Benedict was. She missed him being there if only for a short duration. Once their days together were over, and she back with Erik, it would seem like a dream, and her own regular life be one big bore. She ran her hands down her thighs. Sensed her fingers. Soft, smooth. Erik never explored her. He was a five minute and over and done with type. More like a mechanic than a lover. Benedict had taken her to places she had not been before, explored her and brought her to the point of bubbling over and out, leaving her feeling that she was empty and vacant, and yet so alive, and buzzing like a beehive...Benedict made his way back to the hotel room. The coffee had refreshed him; the Parisian air made him feel like a new man, a man of freedom, a man on the edge of a huge abyss, with his very life tingling with new excitement of the big dare. Sonya would be waiting for him, brimming like a *** on a  hot stove. He had released her of her hang ups and held in senses; had unbutton a new area of excitement, and sexuality and sensuality. And she in turn had opened up for him that arena of experience which he had only dreamed about in his tossing and turning nights at home... Sonya heard the door open. Benedict saw her laying there like Venus on a beach of blue and white and bare, a radio playing a Delius piece, filling the air, and he, Benedict, so alive, ready and waiting, and going there.

She stands there
at the sink

I can see
the outlines
of her bra
through her blouse
at the back

Milka's mum
is talking
about the
state of
Milka's room

complaining
never seen
such a mess

I sip tea
she's poured me

if I left
my bedroom
in that state
my mother
would have slapped
my  backside

I nibble
a Rich Tea
biscuit that
Milka's mum
offers me

I forgot
Milka says
I'll do it
after this
washing up

never seen
such a room
her mother
says again

I can see
the outline
through her skirt
of *******
(Milka's not
her mother's)
the skirt's tight
about her

I dunk in
the Rich Tea
and nibble
the soft mess

just as well
Benedict's
not seen it

(I had though
the bedroom
the small bed
untidy
littered floor)

her mum says
giving me
her soft eyes
and a smile

I try not
to red blush
or let her
see that I'd
been in the room
and had ***

I study
the large broach
she's wearing

lovely broach
I utter

Milka's dad
gave it me
her mum says

Milka turns
and her eyes
look at me
and she knows
what I know
as her face
is blushing
a bright red
about the ***
on her bed.

Before choir practice
before entering
the vestry door
you and Judith

stayed behind
and waited until
the others
had gone inside

and Judith said
look at those stars
and how dark blue
the sky is

you gazed up
at the evening spread
of dark blue
and stars

and moon
to one side
and you put
your hand

around her waist
and drew her close
and she lay
against you

and you said
I read some place
that some
of those distant stars

burned out
centuries ago
and what we see
is the ghostly glow

of dead stars
and she turned your head
towards her
and kissed you

and the pressing
of her lips on yours
and her hands
on your waist

and her 13 year old
******* pushing
against your
14 year old chest

and the sound
of the choir starting up
in practice in the church
and the flight of bats

across
the evening sky
and she holding you near
and the lips engaged

and the eyes closed
and the breathing
taken in
coming up for air

and behind you
the aging graves
the tombstones
with moss

and half lit
by moonlight
and star’s glow
and you held her

in place face to face
with your hands
upon the cheeks
of her behind

eyes still closed
in the land
of the love ******
blind.

We got off the bus
and walked up the road
towards the church
Sunday morning
warm sun

Yehudit said
had a problem
getting out in time
this morning
mother wanted
this done and that done
before we could leave
and she knew
we had to get to church
and sing in the choir

thought you looked harassed
I said
why she didn't wait
until after church
for these chores?

because she wanted them
done then and there
it's a power thing

we walked up
the narrow lane
that led to the church
high hedges
birds singing
flying
a car passed
now and then

did she say anything
about you being late
yesterday afternoon?
I asked

no not as such
but I think
she suspected something
and that is why
the hassle today
Yehudit said

it was a good afternoon
I said

yes it was
she said
but it ended too soon

did someone see us?
I asked

don't know
maybe someone did
and she has got
to hear about it
Yehudit said

why didn't she just say?

not her way
of doing things

we reached the church
and walked
around the back
to the door to the vestry
and got dressed
into our choir clothes

I thought about
the afternoon before
the sun above our heads
the still water
of the pond
(she called it our lake)
the ducks
the fish beneath
the surface
the dragonflies
skirting the water's skin

and she and me
laying by the pond
on our backs
describing cloud formations
occasionally kissing
or holding hands

looking out
for strangers or passer-by
(although rare)
and we held
and caressed
and kissed
and got quite hot
and at it
out bodies close

don't forget
the vicar said
to sing out loud and clear

I watched Yehudit
brushing her hair
in front of the mirror
of the cupboard
of clothes

the vicar seemed ready
for the service
and I gazed at Yehudit
she gave a smile
and we went into church
her lovely smile
with me
for quite while.

I didn't know,
the first time,
you were dying;
thought it
something else
causing you ill;
if I’d known
I’d have stayed
there still.  

What was dying like
the first time around?
We were there
the second time,
holding your hands,
egging you to stay,
but you were
taken away.

I miss your coming
and going;
your humour
and Mutley laugh;
your soft spoken voice,
your bright eyed stare.

I didn't know,
that first time,
you were dying;
we spoke of
mundane matters;
no great speeches
as history dictates,
as the famous do.

Just us talking
the small things through;
you hard of breath,
puffed up,
unknown to us,
nearing to death.

I have only just finished
making Mr D's bed
in the old folks home
when Sophia's there
by the door
arms folded
her eyes searching me

it was close thing
yesterday night
she says

I look at her
wondering how
I got out of her place
with her parents
looking at me
in such a way
and I felt it
was close as close
as being caught
as being caught can be

how'd it go?
I ask

she closes the door
of the room behind her

you cannot come anymore
while they are out
must be
when they are in
she says
standing by the bed  
making me wonder
what the hell happened

what did they say?

she looks at me
then at the bed
good ***?

not now
I say

no
she says
last night before
they come
and spoil it

yes it was
I say
thinking my *** days
were over
the way her father
looked at me

I stand up
and move away
from the bed
and move by her
to get to the window
and open up
to let in fresh air

you come again?
see parents?
she says
they give you
benefit of the doubt
I say you
my good Catholic boyfriend
she says
coming to me
by the window

I guess
I say
when?

not too soon
but you come
she says her Polish accent
driving through her words

but no ***
I guess
I say

she shrugs
and moves close to me
and says
we see
if not there
maybe here
in one
of the old boys' beds?

no not here
it's too risky

risky at my place too
she says
putting her arms
around my waist
her breath on my skin

what if old
Mr D comes in?

he not come up here
in the day
I talk with him
he say too far
to come
he stay downstairs
in day time

but what if
someone else comes?
I say
trying to move
out and off

who come?
she says

she kisses me
then a bell rings

look must go
morning break
coffee or tea
in the staff room
if we're not there
they'll think something
and then
God's knows what

ok
she says
moving away
and so she goes
and I am hot.

Sister Pius can still sense the taste of coffee on her tongue from breakfast with the slice of brown bread with a thin spread of butter as she turns over the page of the book on contemplation written by some unknown Carthusian nun the words momentarily failing to reach her the message left on the page the thought of the next meal already making her mouth moisten and the smell of fresh made coffee tempting her nose bringing to mind the first time she had come to the convent as a guest and young girl full of enthusiasm for the idea of being a nun much to her parent’s disquiet especially her mother who had wanted and been looking forward to grandchildren even though Eve as she was then had never been interested in boys or that side of things but her mother had said that would come she would find Mr Right and that side of things would come naturally implying Sister Pius muses now that being a nun was unnatural against nature and only the oddities in the world would want to be shut away from the world and men and their families and the prospect of marrying and having children and there had been the rows and the tempers frayed and the words said in haste and even on the day she entered her mother had not come around to the idea even if her father had accepted the fait accompli rather grudgingly and in all the years she had been in the convent her parents had not written once not a word just the one visit her father made looking at her as they spoke as if she had grown another head or caught a dreadful disease and had said her mother couldn’t bring herself to visit the place her daughter had died in and those words hurt the way her father had just come out with them the place her daughter had died in and yet she had her secrets too the things she had never told her parents especially her mother never mentioned once that her Uncle Randolph her mother’s brother had molested her one summer while she was staying with him and Aunt Grace while her parents were off on some tour of Europe and as she places her hand on the page of the book in front of her she can still feel his hands on her still sense his breath on her that smell of beer and tobacco and the roughness of his unshaven face as she leaned over her and as the memory returns again she closes the book with a small slam and the echo of it fills the room disturbs a paper on the table in front of her and the memory still fresh the deeds done so imbedded deeply that she doesn’t think it will ever go that it will ever leave and she had not said a word about that summer to anyone not even her mother not even to make a point about what men could do even those who were supposed to be close to you and yet she never did never said one word about him and the things he had done and taking a deep sigh she gets up from the chair and walks to the window looking down on the cloister garth and the mulberry tree that is now full of fruit and can see birds in the branches and a nun walking along the cloister ready to pull the bell for the office of Prime and even now she dislikes the smell of apples the smell of them cooking or the smell of apples being stored because apples she associates with him and the place he took her and the things he did and it was apples she could smell as he touched her and interfered with her and the scent of apples in the air as he leaned over her and looking down again into the cloister the nun has gone and the early morning sun is coming over the cloister wall and the bell is being tolled for Prime and making the sign of the cross she pushes the memory of him and his deeds and that summer back into the depths of her mind closes the door on it in the room in her brain’s memory cells and looking up at the Crucified on the wall above her bed with the features of the Christ battered by time and its hands she nods her head and looks away taking in her mind the image of Him and perhaps a sense of peace and the fact that she is a bride after all a bride of Christ married to one who would not ****** or hurt or say cruel words or betray and where no smell of apples will spoil her day.

Christina
undresses
before bed

views herself
in the tall
wide mirror

narrow waist
small fleshy
mounds of *******

she turns round
and gazes
at her hams

smiles thinking
what he'd say
if he viewed

what she views
looking back
over her

thin shoulders
she turns round
to the front

***** hairs
narrow hips
he would say

you're too thin
need more meat
0n your ****

but your ***
is ok
time for sleep

to put on
her nightdress
brush her teeth

comb her hair
get in bed
close her eyes

think of him
making love
in her head.

Four monks,
black robed,
stood on the beach

in the grounds
of the abbey.
I sat and listened

to the old words
of Father John:
it isn’t easy

living amongst
so many men
from different backgrounds,

with different personalities,
he said
An old clergyman

cross over,
Father Joe
later said.

The young monk,
bespeckled,
crossed over

from the cloister door,
genuflected,
looked at me,

then went
on tip toe
seeming
to the bell tower

to ring
for the office
of Compline.

Monica rode her bike
to Benedict’s house
and waited there
for him to come home

after his morning shift
at work
then they both
walked down

to the espresso bar
by the iron
railway bridge
and ordered two coffees

and listened to Elvis
belting from the jukebox
never told my mother
where I was going

Monica said
why not?
Benedict asked
because she'd not let me

come otherwise
Monica said
why not?
he said

because she thinks
you're too old
I’m  only16
she knows I am

I’m the same age
as Jim
I know
but she thinks

I’m too young for you
but I’m 14
not some kid
in nappies

Monica said
so where
does she think
you are then?

she thinks I’ve gone
for a bike ride
what if someone
sees you with me?

what then?
she won't find out
Monica said
but if she does?

he said
I’ll just say I met you
while bike riding
and we had a coffee

and chat
he smiled
and shook his head
no wonder

she gets annoyed with you
well a girl's got to find
her freedom sometime
she said

he looked at her
sitting there
in her white top
and blue jeans

and pink socks
and open toed shoes
she had applied lipstick
probably borrowed

from her mother
he thought
where now then?
she asked

she drained her coffee
someone had put on
a Beatles' song
on the jukebox

you should have told
your mum
you were coming with me
then we could have gone

somewhere else
he said
we still can
she said

then she'll wonder
where you've got to
she won't
Monica said

she didn't look convinced
let's go back to your place
and see her
and I can explain

he said
not now
Monica said
next time

he frowned
OK
he said
let's go back to my place

and we can go ride
some place
OK
she said moodily

and they walked back
to his house
and got their bikes
and rode to the bridge

down the lane
and set down
the bikes by the hedge
and walked through

the woods
he thinking
of the Elvis Presley film
he could have taken her

to see
and she
thinking
of the last time

in the woods
when they kissed
and she wanted
that moment

of thrill again
and over head
the sound
of thunder

and beginning
of rain.

If you were good and they thought
You’d be safe to walk along to the drugs
Hatch and pick up your own batch of mind
Snatchers, then that was ok, because
It meant they trusted you (fools) and you
Could wander along the corridors and gaze

At others who were on their own way to Hell
And back and sometimes not back at all,
But in some perpetual purgatory where
They were poked and tormented and maybe,
If lucky, purged and delivered sane
(What that meant no one said

Or maybe knew) but if they thought
You bad and unsafe, you’d not be
Allowed out of the locked ward,
But have to sit or wander around
And around the ward or adjoining
Rooms pulling faces at yourself in

Mirrors or windows, or arguing with
Others, nurses, or the quacks with
Their dark eyes and foreign accents,
Until the day’s light crept off,
And the night and lights out call,
And strange bedfellows came in

With the mutters and cries along
The watchtower where the night
Staff peered, sighed and smoked
And cursed and drugged you
And others (not themselves),
And too often joked amongst

Themselves like hyenas picking
Over some corpse; except these
Were alive, if living is what it was
They did, behind the tall walls
And high windows, with the endless
Hum of human voices, of the asylum.

Father knew **** about Vietnam,
Says Bill, other than what he heard

On the radio or the newspapers or
All that other spiel from red necks

Or dumb heads, he knew nothing
About the real war or the reasons

Behind the death fields. Bill inhales
On his cigarette and takes in the

Young feller undressed and laid
Out on the bed with his thin arms

Behind his head, his ***** hanging
Limp like something dead. He watches

As the youngster looks up at the ceiling,
A cigarette held between red lips, his

Pale blue eyes like ponds of shallow
Water. We pulled out of Vietnam quicker

Than a ***** drops her draws in the end,
Although we in the know knew it’d come

To that even before the politician could
Pull up their pants and put on the public

Faces. The youngster sniggers, pulls on
His smoke, some private joke, Bill considers,

The shallowness of youth, remembering
Young soldiers in Vietnam and elsewhere

In later years blown up or out or dead or
****** in the head. The youngster gazes

At Bill wondering if this guy was some secret
Government agent who could **** as good

As he could ****, whether it was all just talk
Or whether the guy could walk the deadly

Walk. Bill smiles, the innocence of youth,
He muses, stubbing his cigarette **** into

An ashtray, remembering the young kid
Whose throat he slit in Mexico some years

Back as he sat and ****, some double cross,
Some dark deceit, Agency orders, job done,

Neat and clean, unknown, unloved, unseen.

I am here,
yet I’m not,
seemingly
unaware of being
as being
should be
(or so I’m told).

No longer young,
no more
spreading out
beside some
young thing,
waiting to see
what she'll bring.

I'm getting old,
(so I’m told),
feeling
the aches more,
the pains
like companions,
sneak up close,
snuggle
into the bone.

I am here,
yet,
at the end
of it all,
I am alone.

Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy’d left

to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her

but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair

was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet

she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around

and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house

by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee

the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you

imagining maybe
she’d not gone off
after all and that
at any minute

she’d seek you out
by some kind of
lover’s radar
but she never showed

and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time

a few weeks back
when after she’d
gone off home
from work

you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat

and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages

of Solzhenitsyn’s
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it

each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow

and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind

depressed
and love blind.

Mamie leaned
against a sitting camel
on the beach
at base camp

outside Tangiers
fiddling with her camera
clothed
in her red two piece

bathing kit
and pink framed
sunglasses
her reddish hair

a mass of curls
looking quite fuckable
as you snapped her picture
with your camera

with the Moroccan guy
looking towards you
thinking maybe the same
holding the rope

leading to the camel
and she said
I wasn’t ready
I was trying to get

my camera set
looking at you
through her darkened lens  
holding her camera

in her hands
the Moroccan guy
looking bored
wanting his pay

and to move on
well I’ve got you now
you said
something to gawk at

in my lonely hours
you could have waited
she said
the sun’ll go in a few hours

you joked
ha-ha
she replied
she paid the guy  

and left him
and the camel
and walked towards you
her bare feet

left footprints
in the damp yellow sands
the camel stinks
she said

and so does he  
she steadied her camera
and walked back a few paces
and said

pose yourself
and so you posed yourself
standing there
in your white tee shirt

and blue jeans
your hair windswept
your features set
in a sun blinded smile

hold it
she said
hold what?
you asked

the pose
she said crossly
just like that
and she snapped the shot

and gazed at you
through the dark lens
of her sunglasses
her small plump ****

wanting to escape
her red bathing top
and the sun still there
in the blue sky

the Moroccan guy gone off
down the beach
the camel following him behind
and you studied Mamie

as she walked back
towards base camp
with love making thoughts
in your sun baked mind.

You could tell
by Mamie’s face
she was sick

of shish kebabs
in fact it seemed
that the whole Moroccan holiday

was kind of getting
to her sensibilities
from the standing

on the two brick toilets
to the shish kebab
food misadventure

let’s go walk
on the beach
she said

before I throw up
with this crap
and so you walked

with her down through
the path to the beach
the moon and stars

above in a black
patchwork sky
the sound of the sea

rushing in and out
and the voices
of the others

getting less
and less
and she said

looking up at the sky
isn’t scary that sky
why is it scary?

you asked
it’s so vast
like it goes on forever

she said
I think Pascal found
the immensity

of the night sky
disturbing
you said

Pascal?
Is he on the coach?
Is he on the tour?

she asked
no he was a mathematician
and physicist and inventor

and Christian philosopher
in the 17th century
oh right

she said
boring ****
come on let’s get

on the beach
and lay down
and stare

at the sky
and stars
and that bright moon

and then we can snuggle
up close
and we’ll see

what comes
and she pulled you
onto the beach

and the damp sand
eased itself
between your toes

and the smell of the sea
hit you
and the sounds

and the wind
from off the sea’s shoulder
and she pulled you

down on the beach
beside her
and you lay back

and looked up
and the vast sky
seemed to press down

on you both
and she laughed
and said

it kind of makes
you seem small
and insignificant

doesn’t it
she said
you felt her hand

in yours
a soft pulse
of her being

right there
like a small beeping drum
and she turned

and looked at you
and smiled
and her smile was captured

by the moon’s glow
and you said
we need to remember

this moment
this being here
this newness of being

and she laughed
and said
don’t get too deep on me

and she leaned in
close to you
and kissed you

and her tongue
entered you
and the whole sky

seemed to witness
the moment
seemed to want

to embrace the kiss
the bright humanness
in her moonlit face.

You both walked along
the narrow country lane

to the small church
and lay in the overgrown grass

in the churchyard
looking up

at the summer sky
and Jane said

It’s so peaceful here
I feel as if part of me


were mixed
with the whole


of nature
you listened to her

looking at her
sideways on

seeing her profile
laying amidst

the green grass
her head facing

the blueness of sky
her hands resting

upon her *******
with one leg straight

the other lifted upwards
with the knee bent

Do you feel that?
she asked

looking at you side wards
her eyes leaving the sky

and resting on you
Yes

you replied
but not thinking

of what she had
but of the beauty of her

and you being there
and taking note

of her eyes and hair
and moving lips

and hands at rest
and her soft youthful breast

and that glimpse
of thigh capturing

your eye
Yes

you repeated
I feel a part of that

feel almost drowned
in its beauty

and she turned
and you saw her smile

and heard birdsong
and felt the sun on skin

and the saw the expanse
of sky and clouds

white chariots moving
across the blue

and wanted that moment
for always and forever

and you reached out a hand
and touched her shoulder

and would had touched
and felt her more

had you been bolder
and she said

We lay here with the dead
but our bones and flesh

are filled with life and love
unlike theirs

wasted away
Yes

you whispered
feeling her bones

beneath the flesh
Just like us some day.

The Moroccan sun was hot
and the sands
of the beach
down from the base camp

were warm
beneath your feet
as Mamie and you
took a walk

looking seaward
then skyward
the sounds
from the base camp

becoming faded
background buzz
and she said
those toilets are a disgrace

two bricks
over a hole
in the ground
and after a few drinks

one stands there
swaying fearing
to fall in
yes not quite up

to the 5 star hotel standard
you said
but this is a camping trip
across half of Europe

and beyond
not some top notch
holiday in the swanky
middle class arena

but still
she moaned
trying to balance
on two bricks

is no mean trick
you sensed her hand
hold yours
her skin warm

sticking to your skin
her fingers moving
between yours
and you recalled

the night just gone
while the guy
you shared the tent with
had gone on a trip

to Fez
you and she
kissed and embraced
and did the business

while outside
you could hear
the voices
of others

as they passed by
or music played on guitars
from the guys
in the bar

up a small way
as you both lay
on your backs
staring at the blue top

of the tent
the heat of the sun
pushed through
and the bodies wet

with sweat
and she put
a hand on your belly
and rubbed

in a circular motion
as far away
you heard
the sway

and run
of the Mediterranean sea
and nearby voices
and their laughter

and gossip
as you and she
kissed
lip to hot lip.

Benedict stands
in the porter's lodge,
circa 1969, waiting
for Dom Tyler the monk,
to bring the large key
to open the church for Matins.

Dawn, cold air, smell of age
and incense and baking of bread.
He remembers Sonia,
the domestic at the home,
who pushed him to the bed
of old Mr Gillam and said
in her soft Italian,
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
then in her broken English said,
I could have *** with you here.

Another joined Benedict
in the porter’s lodge,
some holy-Joe type,
breviary under arm,
starved gaze.
The silence,
the smell,
the chill.
Dom Tyler opens the door
from the cloister
and rattles the key,
smiles, but does not
break the Grand Silence.

He takes them out
into the morning air,
opens up the church.

Lights are on, monks
are assembling, bell rings,
Benedict takes a seat
on the side pew,
the other sits
more in front.

The old monk who last time
talked to Benedict
of monastic life,
slides by, his body aged,
his habit like a shroud.

How he escaped Sonia,
how he managed
to get away unmolested,
he finds it hard to fathom,
except the promise
of the cinema,
the seats at the back,
the kisses and touching,
all in the dark,
the flashing images
of the film going on.

Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
he utters under-breath.
The Latin of early morning
Matins begins, he dismisses
her image and her words.

The holy-Joe opens his breviary
in the semi dark, his finger
turning pages, muttering,
his head nodding
to an invisible prayer.

Benedict imagines Sonia
creeping into the pew,
muttering Italian,
sitting there.

The tall monk
with the large keys;
his way of opening up

the door to the church
as if moving the stone
from the tomb of Christ,

the key having done its job
is placed back
in his black habit pocket.

I polish the choir stalls
with duster
and an old tin

of polish;
I recall her lips
******* me

to a heaven.
The squat monk
pulled weeds

from the side bed,
the sun on his
bent tonsure head.

Benedict
thinks of her
Christina

the girlfriend
at high school
as he now

undresses
preparing
for bedtime

she far off
in her house
in her town

her parents
probably
below stairs

watching their
dull programmes
on TV

while she in
her bedroom
undresses

or so he
imagines
(in his head)

watching her
removing
each piece of

clothing
as he too
undresses

in his room
a coloured
centrefold

of a fast
racing car
on the wall

and her small
photograph
by his bed

she gave him
he'd seen her
on the field

at high school
during their
lunch recess

she sitting
with her friends
giggling

then walking
together
off alone

high smell of
lavender
her soft hand

lips kissing
now in bed
lying there

lights all out
just moonlight
reflecting

her image
he pretends
she is there

next to him
not speaking
not laughing

both watching
the moon move
and stars shine

hands touching
fingers entwined
each having

the same thoughts
in shared mind.

She sat there
on the gate
at the back

the black skirt
raised slightly
showing knees

her white blouse
unbuttoned
at the top

a warm sun
on her head
of neat hair

she waited
for Benny
balancing

herself there
next door's mutt
barked at her

go away
she bellowed
Benny came

shooed the mutt
o it's you
why're you here?

fine welcome
Lizbeth said
all this way

to see you
didn't know
you'd be here

he told her
she climbed down
from the gate

and stood there
her small *******
pushing out

on the cloth
of her blouse
well I'm here

aren't you pleased?
she asked him
course I am

just surprised
that you're here
where to go

that's the thing
where we can
be alone

and do things
do what things?
he asked her

you know what
don't pretend
you don't know

she replied
the sun shone
on her head

and shoulders
reflected
in her eyes

(yes he knew
what she meant
but he said)

I don't know
what you mean
Benny lied.

Beside and beyond
the tabernacle
(evangelistic not catholic)
was one of the biggest

bombsites to explore
more ruins to climb
more places
to hide and seek

and you showed Helen
around the place
finding a way through
the wooden hoardings

put up to keep kids out
and she stood
gaping around
and said

gosh isn’t it big
and to think
that people lived here
and maybe died here

and she clutched
her doll Battered Betty
in her arm protectingly
and you with your catapult

in the back pocket
of your jeans
showed her
into what was left

of a house
climbing the wooden stairs
one wall missing
blown away

the sky visible
through the hole
in the roof
and she in her flowered

washed out dress
climbed gingerly
behind you
talking about what

her mother might say
if she knew
saying how her mother
would wag her finger

at her and say
don’t go in those bombsites
they are dangerous
in one room

was a lopsided picture
still hanging
and there
in the wooden floor

a gaping hole
showing the cellar
two storeys below
she gripped your hand

with hers her other hand
clutching Betty
pressed tight
to her chest

and she said
what would
your mother say
if she knew

you were here?
she won’t
you said
what she don’t know

will do her good
less to worry about
and from the top room
of the house

you could see
the tabernacle
in the early morning sun
feel the sunlight

seeping through
on your face
and Helen said
she was scared

and could you go down  
and so you went
back down the stairs
she gripping you tight

Betty hanging
by one hand to Helen
the smell of dust
and old *****’s ***

and damp wood
and bricks
and London still there
despite old ******’s tricks

with bombs and fire
for you to wander
and explore
and taking Helen

carefully
went out the door.

Having run across the field
to the river’s edge
she sat down on the grass
and he followed

out of breath
and sat beside her
she laughed
told you couldn’t catch me

Milka said
I can run like a gazelle
Naaman breathed in deep
Holding his groin

I gave you a head start
he said
I still won though
she said

pleased with herself
only just
he said
she lay back

on the grass
he watched her breathe
her chest rising
and falling slowly

she had her hands
over her stomach
her short fair hair
mixed with the green grass

she smiled
what are you looking
at me for?
I like looking at you

he said
why?
he looked at the river
because I do

must be a reason
she said
looking at him
with her dark eyes

I think of you
when I’m not with you
and so I need
to capture the image

of you for when
you’re not here
he said
do you think of me

all the time?
she asked
pretty much
he said

my brothers will think you
have gone soft
she said
he looked away

trees blew slightly
in the wind
the clouds were moving slowly
only with regards

to you
he said
he gazed at her
lying there

her legs raised
heels flat on the grass
her skirt showing
her thighs

I dream of you
she confessed
most nights
and pretend Teddy is you

and squeeze him tightly
near to me
so that he is right
against my *******

lucky Teddy
Naaman said smiling
taking in her lips
slightly parted

her teeth
just visible
poor Teddy
only has one ear now

and my mother
has sewn his arm on
many times
Milka said

Naaman lay down
on the grass
next to her
laying his hand

on her arm
feeling her pulse
her warmth
maybe you treat him

too roughly
Naaman said
she smiled
her lips spreading wide

well you’re not there
and he is a poor substitute
she said
I can’t be there

he said
your mother
seldom leaves the house
and if she is out

your father is there
or your brothers
besides you’re too young
for such things

what things?  
she asked
looking at him
trying to look serious

ask Teddy
he said
I’m 14
only 2 years

younger than you
she informed
I know
he said

your brother told me
when we were practising judo
last weekend
does he know you see me?

he knows I take you out
but he thinks I do so out of pity
because I feel sorry for you
she laughed

putting her hands
over her mouth
to stop the loudness
of her laughter

he thinks that?
Naaman nodded
what’s he think we do
pick flowers and watch butterflies?

he thinks we go see
the peacocks
he said
we do

she said
but not this
not what we did
last Sunday

Naaman added
we just kissed
nothing else
she said

more than he thinks
or your mother
he said
she looked at the river

the water flowing slow
best then
she said softly
they don’t know.

Ingrid winced
as she sat
on the stone steps

of Banks House
with Benedict
after his tea

of beans on toast
and a glass of milk
the early evening

was still warm
he never asked why
she winced when she sat

he guessed her old man
had hit her again
her eyes were red

when he knocked her door
a few minutes before
to ask her out

her father had gone by
Benedict on the stairs
5 minutes before

smoking his usual
thin cigarette
his cap pulled

over one eye
don't go far
her mother said

and shut the door
have you had your tea?
Benedict asked

she nodded
and put her hands
on her knees

he wondered if she had
she looked so thin
how about coming with me

to the chippy?
he said
Mum said not

to go far
Ingrid said
it isn't far

he said
it's only up Meadow Row
and across the road

she bit her lip
saw your old man go out
a little while ago

he looked his usual
happy self
Benedict said

she looked
at her tatty plimsolls
she winced

as she moved
well are you coming?
he asked

what if she calls me?
I'll tell her I'm taking you
to the chippy

and be back soon
he said
she might say no

Ingrid said
she won't
he said

she never says no
to me
she looked at him

nervously
suppose
she said

you stay here
and I 'll go say
and he went up the stairs

and she sat watching
until he went from view
she rubbed her thigh

and tried to sit comfortably
she said yes
Benedict said

coming down the stairs
two at a time
did she?

Ingrid said
as long as I was paying
which I am of course

I've got 6d
that'll buy us
a big bag to share

she moved carefully
on the stair
and stood up

and they went down
the steps in silence
passing Ingrid's big sister

who was with
the Spiv looking guy
with the black and white shoes

and greasy hair style
and onto the Square
Benedict told her

his old man
had made him a metal money box
painted blue

to keep my money in he said
that's when he don't nick it
to buy his cigarettes

if he gets short
still at least he made it I suppose
she said

my dad makes nothing
and gives me nothing
they went down the *****

and by the grocer shop
except a good hiding
Benedict said

she said nothing
he gives you that
he calls it discipline

for being bad
she said
cruel ***

Benedict said  
she smiled
they went by

the noisy public house
half way up Meadow Row
she cringed in case

her father was in there
and went up and by
the green grocer shop

where Benedict got
his mother's potatoes and cabbages
they crossed the New Kent Road

and into the chip shop
where he asked
for 6d per of chips

and salt and vinegar
and she waited by the wall  
hands by her side

her hair held at the side
by hair grips
her eyes less red

he brought the chips
to the table along the wall
and sat on the high stalls

she wincing as she sat
he looking at her
sitting there

her flowered
stained cardigan
her off white blouse

and grey skirt
coming to her knees
and felt funny inside

being there with her
he and she
both 9 years old

he the fastest six shooter
of the West
and she his saloon girl

his sidekick
sweet heart
better than the rest.

You noticed, when you last
saw Betty the evening she
was dying, in the curtained
off area of the ward, that she
was wearing around her neck,
the wooden rosary you had

given her some months before.
Her husband had telephoned
you and said she was dying and
she wanted to see you. But when
you arrived she was already on
her way out, her eyes closed,

the death rattle taking hold,
her husband and her children
about her bed. The rosary, a
brown wooden cross with a
metallic Christ, was still there,
the Christ lying where her night

gown covered ******* slowly
rose and fell. When you’d seen
her some months back, in the
high street, she said she would
learn the prayers of the rosary,
and how grateful she was to you

for the gift, and she fingered it
there and then, her thumb and
finger rubbing over the Christ.  
You’d first met her a year or so
before as she sketched the large
gardens you visited as a group.

Her hand guiding the pencil as
the image was translated onto
the sketch pad, her eyes scanning
what it was she wanted to capture
in all its beauty. I like capturing

churches, she had said, watercolours
and pencil or charcoal as my aids.
You remembered words that evening
as she lay there dying from cancer,
the curtained area dim and silent
except for the rattling breath, just Betty

and the rosary in the end, and your
deep love and the unwanted death.

Betty sips her drink and crosses
her legs and wonders if Chowbrew

will ever come as he said he would
and as she has been waiting for

over an hour she thinks he’s not
coming, thinks he’s gone off with

another. She sighs. All that time getting
ready, putting on the new dress,

making sure she’d put on fresh
underwear, showered, washed

her hair, filed her nails and still
he hasn’t come. Betty, her mother

used to say, men are like buses,
if one doesn’t turn up another’ll soon

show, but it didn’t follow in her

experience; if one didn’t show,
she’d be left waiting until the bright

moon shone and the shining stars
flickered in the dark night sky, and

then she’d go home to bed, tuck
herself under the duvet, pull it

over head, and cry or swear or
maybe both. She looks at her

wristwatch.  He isn’t going to
come; she mutters to the air,

he’s left me out to dry, all that
time I wasted; now I’m going

to cry. Betty, her mother often
said, men have only one thing

in mind, oh, yes, they’ll bring
you flowers, chocolates, buy

you a meal, get you drunk,
but at the end of it all, it’s

getting you into bed that they
are after, and she remembers,

in the background her father’s soft
laughter. She empties her glass

and is just about to leave, when
a breathless Chowbrew stumbles

into sight, face flushed, clothes in
disarray, Sorry I’m late, got the

wrong cinema, she hears him say.
What an ****, she muses, what a

prat, doesn’t know where he’s
going or what he’s at, but at least

he’s here, she smiles and says,
Good to see you, Chowbrew dear.

Between full moons
And new moons he lived
Half crazy, or so he said,
Putting that down as his
Excuse for his raving moods
Of pinch and punch whatever
Time of the month, but you

Thought it best to wait and see
If it would all go away or if he’d
Grow out of it like an old sweater
Or maybe have some religious
Conversion and be a better person,
But he never did, and the cruising
For a bruising, as he said to you,

Continued, the moods changing,
Darkening, the rows, the words,
The up you signs, the pulling down
Of blinds before the beatings began,
(That sort of man), the neighbours
Saying, yes, he’s a good steady type,
Wouldn’t hurt a fly, smiles and says
Hello, how do you do, and goodbye.

Between summer sun to winter death,
You waited, bided your time, watched,
Felt, ached, then one winter morning,
Out of the blue, he stopped hitting you,
You hit him instead and now he’s silent,
Good to be around, because he’s dead.

Between full moons
And new moons he lived
Half crazy, or so he said,
Putting that down as his
Excuse for his raving moods
Of pinch and punch whatever
Time of the month, but you

Thought it best to wait and see
If it would all go away or if he’d
Grow out of it like an old sweater
Or maybe have some religious
Conversion and be a better person,
But he never did, and the cruising
For a bruising, as he said to you,

Continued, the moods changing,
Darkening, the rows, the words,
The up you signs, the pulling down
Of blinds before the beatings began,
(That sort of man), the neighbours
Saying, yes, he’s a good steady type,
Wouldn’t hurt a fly, smiles and says
Hello, how do you do, and goodbye.

Between summer sun to winter death,
You waited, bided your time, watched,
Felt, ached, then one winter morning,
Out of the blue, he stopped hitting you,
You hit him instead and now he’s silent,
Good to be around, because he’s dead.

Magdalene waits in the passage
for Mary to come. Other girls pass
by hurrying on to the next lesson.

Mary comes along swinging her
satchel over her shoulder, cursing.
If that old ****’s teaching next term

I’m off to join the convent and be
a ******* nun, she says, looking back
along the passage, her face flustered,

her hair in her eyes. Magdalene says,
what up? Has old Murphy had a go
at you again? Mary sighs, moves along

the passage and Magdalene follows,
her eyes moving over Mary’s swaying
hips, taking in her thighs outlined by

her school skirt. Old Murphy’s long
overdue to retire, Mary says, she should
be in the graveyard of St Luke’s with

dog’s ***** on her tombstone. She and
Magdalene pause by the girl’s toilets,
then enter in, making sure there’s no

one in there, before they quickly and
greedily kiss. They part and stand back
staring at each other. I needed that,

Magdalene says, all through R.E. I’ve
thought of it, despite Fr Gragin going
on about the Blessed Trinity. Mary says,

I’d have done the same if the old ****
hadn’t been on about the Civil War and
what do I care? Mary Moran, says she,

will you stop chewing gum and sit on
four legs of the chair. I think she was
after to giving me the ruler across my

palms, instead she gave me 500 lines
on how to sit on a chair and listen.
They move to the mirror and attend to

their hair and faces. Far off a bell rings.
They look at their reflections in the mirror.
They look at each other, then and touch

hands and lips and part, one to double
maths, the other to boring craft and art.

A French monk wipes
the shell of an egg
on the serge of black.

He walks slowly
in sandaled feet
across the cloister,
his shadow following
close behind.

I pick apples
from the apple trees
in the abbey orchard,
my fingers twisting
as I'd be shown

-she mouthed
my fingers
one by one,
******* them
to a strawberry ripeness-

Dom Leo takes
the breviary
from the shelf
beside his hip,
opens to the right page,
eyes scanning
the script

- I watched her
as she slowly stripped.