Come over any time
Mrs Debit said
and don't mind
if David's not here

I’m sure
I can get you
something to eat
or such

ok
I said
walking back
down her drive

wondering what happened
to David
but she said
he was out

so I couldn't stay
that time
but she sure had
a nice manner with her

I thought
stopping at the bottom
of her drive
looking back

at the house
she waved at me
and I waved back
David said

go around the back
if there's no answer
from the front door
and so I did

and there
was Mrs Debit
in her lilac
or such colour bikini  

laying there
in the back yard
by the pool
O sorry

I said
thought David was here
he said to come
around back

she sat up
and gazed at me
for a moment or two
O

she said
you must be Benny?
yes that's right
I said

David said
to come around
he was going
to show me his

collection of Elvis records
she smiled
and got up
and walked over to me

O he's had to go out
on an errand for me
and won't be back
until late

she said
I could smell her perfume
from where I stood
or was it sun oil?

I couldn’t decide
you can stay for a bit
if you want
she said

I can get you
something cold
or cool
no I’m ok

I said
backing off a little
finding her figure
kind of warming

maybe I’ll comeback
another time
I said
ok

she said
I was reading
and sort of snoozed off
I nodded

and saw the book
and red hat
by the pool  
you stay can

if you wish
she said
if you have swimming gear
you can swim

in the pool
I’m sure I have
a pair of David’s trunks
around some place

no I’m ok
must get back
I said
another time maybe

she said smiling
sure
I said
I'd love that

she closed
the front door
and was gone
I walked back

on home
carrying the image
of her in my head
come over

any time
she had said.

I rise at the break of dawn,
said Sister Clare, I rise
like the lark into morning sky,
my arms out stretched like
the wings of a bird in flight;
I leave my bed, I leave my
dreams for the owls of night.

The bell rings, the voice of
my Groom calls, His voice
softer than a falling leaf, His
words enter my mind and heart,
His love fills me, touches each
part of my deepest self, echoes
along the strings of my nerves.

I dress like one for a wedding,
clothe myself with simple array,
black and white and grey; my
feet are simply clad, sandals
sans stockings or tights, my
hair hidden from sight, my
face alone is seen by the world.

I walk along the cloister like
one in love, my Groom awaits
me in the chapel, His arms
spread wide, His hands nailed
to the large wooden cross; His
eyes are closed, His heart is open,
His love flows from His wounds.

I go to my place in the choir, I
open my book of prayer, I sing
His praises, sensing Him there,
my Love, My Groom, my dear
Wounded Lamb, my King of Kings.
My  lips sing to Him, my voice
steady as one in flight, my hands
would feel His pain, His wounds
I would bathe, I would cleanse.

My heart is His, my life, my ticking
time of deed and thought, my body
is His, my waking hour is His to
tell or take, to let me sleep or wake.

I go about my day, I do my deeds,
I work and pray, I think of Him as
I do my chores, think on His coming
hour, His raising the dead, His sadly
separating sheep from goats, as the
Good Book said, I think of His healing
touch, His firm words upon the air,
I sense Him near, I feel His hand upon
my brow, I wish He would come to me now.

Come-
Yehudit,
let me see your eyes,
I’ve not seen them
since that far off sunrise.

Let me see
your brown hair,
let me feel it
between my fingers,
touch the strands
with finger and thumb.

Come-
Yehudit,
let us laugh once more,
let me see you walk
in the long grass,
by the pond,
sitting and watching
the ducks swim,
listening to the birds sing.

Let us watch
until the stars
become dim or die.

Listen-
Yehudit,
my long ago love,
I was sad to hear
of your cancerous death,
your too soon demise.

Come-
Yehudit,
let me see your smile,
let the sun sit
in your shade
for a while.

Remember that first kiss?
That embrace,
lips meeting,
us close,
face to face?

That summer
after school,
sitting in the tall grass,
us alone,
bright sky,
a steam train
going by
to some place,
us talking,
kissing,
blessed
by another's grace.

She stopped by our cottage
on the way down the road
to the school bus
Yehudit and her sister

my sister and her sister
walked ahead talking
she walked beside me
at a slower pace

my mother
quizzed me last night
Yehudit said

what about?
I asked

you and why
we're together so much
and what was going on?

what did you say?

said we were just friends
and that we were in the form
at school and were
necessarily together  
but she wasn't convinced
she said there were other reasons

I looked at her beside me
her brown hair tied
by a simple blue bow
her eyes focusing on me

someone ratted on us?
but who?

my sister most probably

why though?

she's mother little pet
we walked on
to the bus stop
in silence

I watched her sister in front
shorter maybe
more beautiful
but mouthy and spirited

we stood waiting
for the school bus
Yehudit staring at her sister

I stood next to her
our hands nearly touching

other kids
were at the bus stop too
so she said nothing
for a while

then the bus came
and we got on
and I sat next to Goldfinch

Yehudit sat next
to her sister at the front

Goldfinch talked about football
and who played what game
and who won

I watched Yehudit
talking to her sister
her sister blushed
and looked back at me
then she looked away again

Yehudit stared out
the window
at the coming down of rain.

Coming of spring over the fields
she sitting there in the tall grass

talking of the effects of art on the
human mind and fragile heart and

you sitting there beside her your
hand near hers as it lay there and

you half listening to her words while
taking in a glimpse of thigh showing

where her skirt rides high out of the
corner of your eye and she saying

without the essence art life would be
a mistake and you lean forward and

kiss her neck sensing the softness of
skin the smell of sweet scent wishing

Rubens or Renoir could capture her
with brush and oils and by stretched

canvas held with the coming of spring
in this green field where songbirds sing.

Converte nos, Sister Teresa whispered, leaning forward in the darkness of the church; convert us, she repeated, sensing the infirmarian nun beside her, hearing the breath and muttered prayers. She had insisted on being wheeled into the church for Compline; had got her way; was pleased she was in the pew where she'd sat for the last ten years. She loved the silence before it all began; the sense of space; the soft opening of the Confiteor, the movement of bodies like a wave of water over the blacked-out walls and high roof of the church. She brought her arthritic hands together; dug deep for a fresh prayer, but all was used; all had done before; all spread wide over her life of contemplation; in and out of her light and alternating darkness. The infirmarian muttered something. Sister Teresa shrugged her shoulders; inclined her ear; moved her head and unseeing eyes. Was it Sister Bernadette? Or was it another? She couldn't tell; all were the same in her darkness, except the touch; hand on hand; whispered words. Long ago, Jude or Judas had kissed; had betrayed. The sound of footsteps on flagstones; the rustle of habits and clicking beads; a sense of breathing and life; entering into the shared darkness and blackness, except for the red altar light to inform of the Crucified's presence and the all-seeing-eye. Sighed. Waited. Held breath. Reached for the sister's hand or arm to reassure, to sense she was not alone in the dark and that she had not died and sunk to dimness and damnation of another dark. The infirmarian tapped her hand. Relief. Converte nos, she mumbled, convert us, she repeated. The Confiteor opened up as if the whole world had breathed out in one voice; had poured out the world's sins in a soft eruption of voices. She breathed in. Clutched her hands. Wanted the closeness and nearness of all; wanted to be held; to be kissed; wanted to see the face of the sister beside her who sat close and whispered her own Confiteor. Ora pro nobis, she whispered, pray for us, let me not be lost in this darkness. Where was Papa? Where is Mama? Clare where are you? she muttered, her eyes searching the blackness, reaching out with a hand into the empty space before her. Hand on hand. Whispered voice. The chant rose and fell like a gentle sea carrying the prayers of the black-robed sisters. Jude or Judas and the kisses and betrayal. Dead now; all dead; all gone. Left here, she muttered, like a beached fish, flapping on the emptying sands of my hourglass like a whimpering child. She clutched her breast; sensed a pain. Leaned her head neatly on the sister's shoulder; sank slowly into her arms like a child searching for its mother's breast and the comforting embrace of warmth and love. Stillness. Peace. Darkness. Light.

We come out of the cinema
like let loose young dogs of war
up and along the New Kent Road
the daylight blazing into our eyes

the roar of traffic in our ears
and on and up by Neptune's fish shop
-not to buy no more coins-
and wait by the crossing

both Enid and me waiting
looking at the opposite side
of the road at the bomb site
the opening of Meadow Row

good film wasn't it
Enid says
looking at me
through wire framed spectacles

her eyes bright not dull
as they usually are
no fear there yet
of her old man

traffic stops and we cross
the road and then run
onto and across the bomb site
I'm riding my imaginary

black horse shining like crude oil
and she just behind riding
her pretend white horse
-not side saddle like some lady

but like me on the saddle-
the whole world stops for us
we are riding a new Wild West
our guns firing at advancing

bad guys or maybe Injuns
with tomahawks
then she stops in her tracks
and stands there sans horse

eyes full of fear
what do I tell my dad?
she says
he doesn't know about the cinema

what do I say?
I look at her
my imaginary horse dissolved
and I walk over to her

see her visibly shaking
and I've been with you too
what can I tell him?
she says

I look at her standing there
her hands holding each other
her eyes fear glazed
say you've been with

some else to the park
what have you
she looks at me
I can't lie he knows if I lie

she says
create a truth
I say
what do you mean?

she asks
tell him you've seen
horses up West
up West?

yes West End of London
but he won't believe me
about that what horses he'll say
be creative tell him some

of what you've seen
she frowns
about the horses?
yes be inventive with it

she thinks
and we walk down Meadow Row
she looking at the ground
mind in thought

I look at her walking there
knowing she'll not get it right
no talent for the invented word
her old man will whack her sure

and as we walk up
through the Square
I see him on the balcony
standing by his door.

The way
Miss Manners

sat
on the school desk

when the teacher
was out

of the room
or before

he came in
hands on each side

of her thighs
flat

on the desk top
her white socks

hugging her carves  
and black shoes

toe touching
and the knees rubbing

each on each
and Boxy said

nudging you
giving her

the eye
wouldn’t mind being

her bicycle seat
and the sunlight

lit up her hair
angel like

sitting there you thought
the hands small

palms down
the fingers

slightly spread
the nails

pinkie white
unchewed

and Boxy whispered
bet she’s *******

his breath
easing out

sweetness
of bubblegum

wouldn’t mind
kissing her ***

he sniggered
there was

where the sunlight
caught her profile

that contrast
of light and shade

the nose
the lips

slight spread
and where

the sun lit her
a halo shone

around her
****** head.

You sat in Nero’s
the coffee cafe
in the high street
sipping your cappuccino

and there was a guy and dame
on the next table talking
and as hard as you tried
not to listen

the conversation crept
into your air space
invaded your ears
and she said

I work all day
long hours
and when I come home
all he wants

is to have it off with me
and the guy said
what each day?
yes

the dame said
and I told him  
I’m tired when I get home
it’s not the first thing

on my mind
when I get it in
and what did he say?
the guy asked

the dame wore glasses
and sipped her coffee
and there was coffee foam
on her upper lip

like a moustache
and she wiped it off
with a napkin
and then she said

he said he’d been
at work all day too
and it was the first thing
on his mind when he got home

you sipped more
of your cappuccino
your wife was talking
about something she’d seen

in a store
but it was not her size
and you showed the look
of understanding

and your son
was probably thinking
of the next football match
on TV

and the dame said
all I want to do
when I get home from work
is take a bath or shower

and unwind
the guy nodded
and you supposed he wished
he could be there

when she took her
bath or shower
and you looked beyond them
at the crowded cafe

the various people there
trying to push
the conversation away
but it was still there

the guy said
what did you tell him then?
o him
he never listens

she said
he only hears
what he wants to hear
the guy leaned forward

and she said
it gets on my nerves
having that to face
each day I get in

from work
you looked
at your coffee cup
the whiteness of the china

the colour of the coffee
and the conversation going on
and he said
it’s so bad that

he needs to back off
and the dame said
I gave in eventually
let him have his way

you looked at your wife
as she talked
of the weather
and the threat of snow

and you
looking at your cell phone
thinking it was time to go.

I sometimes wish
we conversed more
you and I,
but we rarely did.

We both preferred
the silence
to over talk;
each shared

a Stoic philosophy,
Spartan in our ways,
even in our former days.  
Sometimes, my son,

I wish I had said more
and you to me,
but it wasn't our way;
I guess we were

more alike
than I thought,
preferring reason,
to emotional turmoil,

preferring the calm
before the storm,
our quiet hand
upon the helm of ship,

our steadiness
against the tides
of trudging time.
I wish that we

had said more in words
to each the other
over the recent years,
before your death

had silenced you,
before the grief set in
and tore
at soul and mind.

I still converse with you,
my son,
but in a different
manner now,

more open,
more expressive,
knowing you will hear
in your quiet way,

even after death,
after days, months
and years, after hurt
and pain and tears.

I wish sometimes
we conversed more
you and I,
that we had said

the things that now
I wish to say,
but we were more alike
than I thought then,

not just father and son,
but kindred
philosophical
gentle men.

On the road
from Madrid to Malaga
you sat next to Miryam
in the coach

the scenery going by
the Spanish sun above
music from the radio
and she beside you

her head
against your shoulder
sleeping
her red hair

a mass of curls and waves
her eyes closed
her mouth slightly open
her hands crossed

in her lap
you sitting there
thinking of the base camp
in Madrid

the bar and *****
the music
in the small disco
and dancing

to the small hours
and she said
about her parents
and she being

for the first time
free to do
what she wanted
and she walked with you

back to her tent
and there she stood
and said
if I was alone

in this tent
I'd invite you in for ***
but I'm sharing
with another girl

and so did you share
with another guy
you said
wishing it otherwise

and so she kissed you
good night
and unzipped the tent
and went in

and off you walked
through the early morning dark
crossing the field of tents
trying to remember

where yours was
remembering it was by
the hedge with Bob's flag
on top waving silently

in the semi-dark
she stirred
against your shoulder
and readjusted her head

making that
I'm comfortable sound
and then she was off again
a Beatles's song

on the radio
someone sang along
you still sensing
that kiss of hers

her lips on yours
the night before
her hands
around your waist

her small ****
pressing against you
the smell of oranges
and ripe fruit

and her tongue invading
your mouth
touching yours
and your pecker stirring

from slumber
your hands on her ****
feeling the pockets
of her jeans

the smooth material
the studs
her near you
lips and tongues

and she stirred
and opened her eyes
and lifted her head
from your shoulder

and said
are we there yet?
no
you said

getting near
and she looked out
the window of the coach
and you studied

her profile
the blush of cheek
the nose
her neck

and the show
of naked shoulder
and she said
did I snore?

no  
you said
good
she said

because sometimes
I tend to go off
into snoring land
and she smiled

and touched your thighs  
and all you saw
was the blue world
of her cool blue eyes.

It was cool
inside
the Burgos Cathedral

the people pious
and otherwise
was in rows

either side
the priest
was up front

muttering in Spanish
the people
muttering back

and you stood
trying to find your place
in the book of mass

tucked in the seat
in front
what are they saying?

Mamie said
why is that old guy
giving me the eye

she was sitting
beside you in one
of the pews

her short skirt
showing plenty
of leg

her tight bust
pushing
to be free

is it Latin?
she asked
no Spanish

you said
she dragged
her finger

down the page
muttering words
you watched the priest

hands raised
his hands open
to the heavens

some old senora
was giving you
the evil eye

her dark eyes
like prunes
in a basin

of dull cream
searched you out
that old guy

is still licking me
with his oily eyes
Mamie said

you smelt the incense
the stink
of bodies unwashed

her perfume
her bust close
to your arm

pressing nearer
her hair wild
and bushy

was held in place
by a red Alice band
the old guy looked away

he’d had his fill
his eyes watery
aged

****** elsewhere
like aged slugs
Mamie closed

the mass book
put it back in place
and folded her hands

in mock prayer
like pose
her eyes drinking in

the scene
the priest
the altar

the windows
the statues
her voice soft

in your ear said
when can we
get out of here?

I need to ***
the priest held aloft
the host

the Christ
the Lamb of God
she pushed her hands

between her thighs
squeezed her knees
in anxious pose

ok you
said moving
from the pew

better go
before you wee
I suppose.

That monk in the refectory
sitting there
reminded me

of old Jack:
same look,
same eyes,

that quiet presence.
The French peasant monk,
cutting back

the hedgerow
with a scythe,
black robed,

tonsured,
humble as cheese,
nods and bows.

I picked apples wrong
in the orchard,
the monk said,

he showed how,
his fine fingers
twisted just so,

feminine,
pinkish nails,
his dark tight curls

untonsured.
For whom the bells toll
down to the sea and beach?

I tossed stones
across the incoming tide,
further

than Brother Hugh
(moaning Myrtle)
could reach.

Benedict knew
Miss Croft
was out of his league;
she was everything

he wasn’t: upper
middle class,
well spoken,
well dressed;

had a nice face,
nice ***. The mere
thought she’d have
anything to do with him

was a joke. But he
wouldn’t have minded
a poke; his pecker
would have obliged,

he thought. Nonetheless,
he knew reality when
it came, knew he was out
of the game, so became

content just to talk
and joke and laugh
and forgot all about
the poke, least for real,

in dreams a guy can
do whatever wants
or desires: create or
destroy worlds with fires,

make the perfect art,
sleep with whosoever,
become a saint;
dreams allow such things.

But reality holds in check;
but one does what one can,
he thought, and keeps what
reality brings. She was the

out of your league type;
he could have sworn she
had it tattooed on her ***,
highlighted on her passport.

He would have been just
a nice guy to her; have given
her what he could have afforded;
read better books, listened

to highbrow music, spoken
with a plum in his mouth
if it did the job, but he couldn’t
make the grade, didn’t have

the right tone in speaking.
He knew one couldn’t always
get what one wanted
or was ever seeking.

Can't you swim?
Netanya asked

no I sink like a stone
I said

my son could teach you how  

I’m ok not swimming

she sighed
what if you drown?

I get wet

I'm serious
my son could help

I looked out at the sea
looks rough
I said

it's ok  
Adam will show you
she said

ok but if I drown
I’m coming back
to haunt
the *******

he's my son
she said frowning

like I said
I’ll haunt him

so half hour later
her son took me
to the beach
and he said
see that sea breaker?

yes I see it

well climb on top
and dive in
he said

dive in?

yes the best way
to learn
swimming is 90% instinct
you go in
you'll swim to survive

ok
I said
and climbed on top
and dived in

SPLASH
I raised a hand
through the water's skin
and waved
and took in
a mouthful
of salt water

and my life flashed
before my watery eyes

the son pulled me up
and along
through the water
and sat me
on the beach

you ok?

he said

no instinct
I said
except to drown

he smiled
seems so
but I saved you
he said

thanks
I said

his mother was in the sea
a little way off
her green bikini
clutching her body
like a fond lover
the waves licking
her lovely thighs

I smiled
and wiped water
from my hazel eyes.

Your father and other men
Play cards and smoke around the

Table in the other room.
Your mother sits knitting by

The fire listening to
The radio low. You sit

On the sofa reading a
Book sensing the fire’s warm

Glow. Your sister Kate is out
With that young man from the store

To see a movie and won’t
Be late. A man laughs out loud

From the other room and your
Mother looks up and shakes her

Head and knits on, the battered
Radio playing Country.

You turn a page of the book,
The characters coming to

Life, the tale unfolding. Your
Cousin Merle is upstairs with

Some girl although your mother
Doesn’t know she believes he’s

Studying hard in his room
Sitting digesting the books.

You listen for some sounds from
Upstairs, a small cry or shrill

Laughter from being tickled
Or bed springs moving, but all

Is hush, just the sounds of your
Mother knitting and men and

Your father talking and low
County music playing on

The radio. You picture
Merle on his bed keeping the

Girl’s voice down low shafting her
Real slow while out of the small

Window the full moon’s all glow.

Where've you been?
Enid knew her father
would ask her that
once she got in

-I can't lie to him
she told Benny
after they came out
of the cinema
then create
another truth
he said
another truth?
she asked
sure another place
you can go to
be your truth
what other place?
she asked
the church
on the New Kent Road
say you've been to church-

I've been to church
Enid said

her father choked
on his cup of tea
church?
you're lying
he said

no went in the church
she said

-and she had
Benny took her there
and she entered-

what church?
he asked

St Mark's
at the top
of Meadow Row

her father
eyed her darkly
what you do
in church?

I prayed and looked
at the coloured
glass windows

-she had prayed
and gazed
at  the windows
of colour-

what do you have
to pray for?
her father asked

her mother eyed
her husband
be rid of you
I would think
she said

her husband
eyed her
you want another
black eye to match
that one?  

who'd you go
in church with?

-Benny let her go in
alone just in case
Benny said-

on my own
she said
confident
in her truth

he looked away
from her

anyway
he said to his wife
I said to this guy
you want the **** car
or what?

and her father
lost interest in Enid
and she walked past him
and into her bedroom
and shut the door

Benny'd been right
about truth
create one
and stick to it
like glue
it was right
she mused
hearing her
father's voice
from the other room
it was true.

You sit in a chair in the locked room staring at your reflection in the mirror taking in your eyes that stare back at you look at the nose the mouth the hair at the lost ness you see there and all the time downstairs the hum of voices which carry up the stairs as if they had legs of their own and amongst them your husband’s voice that deep baritone that dark sound voice that resides in your memory even when you do not see him for days and outside the window which is sealed your children play at their games their loud voices and laughter reach up to you and take your hand in theirs in your imagination as you look away momentarily and gaze at the window at the curtains that are drawn at the morning sunlight trying to permeate through the cloth at the way pictures on the walls hang lopsided as if they too are slightly mad as if they are merely reflection of your mind and at your inner turmoil and imbalance the Van Gogh with its greens and yellows and birds dark as death and fields that sway insanely wrestling with the angry sky and whole scene reaching out to you wanting to draw you into the inferno of colours and shapes and hardened oils and looking back at the mirror the eyes are still on you the stare hard as marble the pupils like deep pools the chin solid the mouth stretched tight as if drawn in dull red by a child and as you stare at the eyes you remember your mother’s eyes that hint of madness even then in her before the big plunge came prior to the demons settling up home within her mind before they took her way screaming like some banshee out of the house leaving you at the top of the stairs peering down at her through your nine year old eyes crying for her return even though her eyes were wild with fires and demons and voices left her lips voices not hers words foul and high and deep and curses that echoed down the passages years afterward and your father fearing that the madness would be in you  too would beat you at any sign of such a malady raising its head in words or in your eyes or gestures and your sister Clare strapped in her wheelchair was pushed out in the garden in all weathers so as to be away from you away from your potential insanity where in one harsh winter she died of influenza saved at least from you and the latent madness your father feared and buried in the family site beneath a yew that sheltered her from the hot sun and as you gaze at your lips you watch them move formulating words uttering sounds which suddenly become songs French chansons the ones your mother taught you the very ones she sang to you as she held you close even though the dark demons were gradually creeping upon her and all this your husband now knows and the whole cycle begins again and the children outside play as you did once as your mother stared down at you as you too played with all innocence as they are doing now with black crows gathering in a nearby fields beneath a darkening sky.

We were allowed out
of the minibus
for an hour
to explore the view
and have some refreshments
or explore where we will

don’t get lost
said the driver and guide

does he think
we're complete idiots?
Dalya said

I’ve been to Glasgow
and never got lost
and I had my brother
with me at the time
and he couldn’t find
his way to his backside
without someone
guiding his hands

let's have a look round Neustadt
I said

she walked beside me
leaving the mini bus behind
she was wearing
a red patterned top
and her blue jeans
that clung to her thighs
like a drowning sailor

not much to look at
she said
I’ve seen more to see
inside my brother’s ear

are you always this happy?
I asked

what do you mean
I am happy
just saying
what I thought

we came to a bridge
and a river
and stood there
looking at the boats
and water

O you should have seen
the Yank girl last night
O what a sight it was
she getting ready for bed
in the cramped tent
and I was laying there
already in my night clothes
trying not to look
and she was wearing
these tight *******  
that looked like
some kind
of torture contraption
red they were
with words on

what did the words say?
I asked

I don't know
it was in German
could have said
way in for all I know

anyway why would you
be interested
in what it says
on a girl's *******?

might be instructions
to a treasure trove

Dalya didn't smile
but took out a cigarette
and lit up

I lit up a smoke too
and watched boats
on the water

she's not your type
Dalya said

what's my type?

you're out of her league
she'd not let you
smell her perfume
let alone get inside
her ***** underwear

I like you
I'm not interested in
other girls
I said

just a well
she'd not be for you
she inhaled deeply
and stared ahead
at the water

anyway
when you are with me
in my tent
and she's out
can you not make
so much noise
I’m sure the Polish woman
suspects

what makes you
think that?

her look
the way she studies me
when we're together
that kind of
what a naughty girl
you are gaze

I smiled

no laughing matter
just because
her daughter's nun like
doesn't mean
I have to be

we walked on
across the bridge
some fine buildings
to our left

Dalya certainly wasn’t
nun like
the other night
I thought
remembering her
opened up
like a conquered city
waiting for the pillaging
and ***
her hands gripped tight
around my neck

the warmth
the perfume
the soft skin
she like some
harbour pilot
guiding me in.

Here's Odense
Dalya says
looks OK

the driver
parks the bus
(mini bus)
and we all
disembark

an hour
and be back
the driver
informs us

so we all
go our ways

I walk on
with Dalya
she gassing
about things
as she does

that Yank girl
in my tent
always on
about men
who she's had
what they've done
small details
about ***
makes me sick
Dalya says

what do you
say to her?
I ask her
as we sit
in a street
side café

don't say much
just listen
Dalya says
I don't know
what to say

I order
two coffees
the waitress
a young dame
writes it down
then goes off
I watch her
walk away
lovely ***
I’m thinking

why not tell
the Yank girl
about your
**** life?
I tell her

I don't have
a *** life
not like hers
Dalya says
anyway
I couldn't
just tell her

she tells you
about hers

I couldn’t
not details
not each part
like she does

our coffees
are brought out
to us both
the waitress
smiles at me
and walks off

what details?
what's she say?

can't tell you
Dalya says

you spoilsport

it's not that

tell me then

Dalya sips
her coffee
I sip mine
watching her
her dark hair
the stern gaze
her thin lips

she did say
something odd
I remember
Dalya says

what was that?

M&S;

M&S;

yes that's right
don't know what
it stands for
Dalya says
but she says
she likes it

Dalya sips
more coffee

I give her
my famous
Elvis smile

what's that for?
she asks me

whips and chains
and leather
and whipping
I inform
is what her
M&S;
is about

Dalya sits
open mouthed

***** cow
she remarks
who does she
chain and whip?

maybe she's
chained and whipped
by some guy
I suggest

God how gross
how could she?
how *****
and the fact
we share tents
Dalya says
quite concerned
I couldn't
she remarks

I guess not
I reply
recalling
an old flame
much older
who liked it
before ***

Dalya sips
her coffee
in silence
in deep thought

I sip mine
savouring
each mouthful

recalling
the old flame's
preference
of spanking
before ***
and the sound
like applause
in those small
concert halls.

We woke up in Oslo;
the sunlight seen
through the slit
when the zip
of the tent was opened.

I breathed in the air
trying to get through
the mustiness of bodies
and stale night air.

How did you sleep?
Dalya asked.

Disturbed mostly.

Why?

Well you were there
and and I was over here,
and you slept so peacefully,
your breathing so regular,
so neat.

She looked around at me
from the zip
and said,
how did that disturb you?

I was wake
and couldn't sleep
and seeing you sleeping
disturbed me.

Why couldn't you sleep?

Too much *****,
too much heavy food,
I don't know,
just couldn't get off.

You oughtn't
to be here anyway,
she said,
if the Yank girl
hadn't gone off
into your tent
with the Aussie guy
to do whatever,
you would be there
with him.

What was I to do
sleep out
in the cold night air?
I would have caught
pneumonia or such.

It shocked the ****
out of me
seeing you there
in my tent
when I woke this morning,
Dalya said.

Then I realized
the Yank prat
wasn't here
and put one
and one together.

Don't make a habit of this.

Well, you tell her
to keep out of my tent
and I’ll tell the Aussie
to have his *** elsewhere,
I said.

I'm going for a shower,
she said,
I’ll call out to her
to get out of your tent
on the way
and then you can get
your gear
to shower and dress.

She went out the tent
with her towel
and changed of clothing.

I lay there
in yesterday's clothes,
feeling yuk and tired,
gazing at the scenery
through the slit
of the zip area.

When I entered her tent
the night before
she was asleep,
so I crept to the other side
of the tent and slept
on top of the sleeping bag
of the Yank girl,
only I didn't sleep
too well,
but I watched Dalya,
the sleeping beauty,
sleeping
in her sleeping bag
zipped up and tidy
and blew a kiss
from my palm
which touched
her shoulder.

I always smiled
at that
as I got older.

Dalya holds
the tall glass
of coffee
at the bar
looking round
the café

Ravensburg
I’ve marked it
on my map
she utters
just to see
where we've been
on this trip

I sip beer
looking in
the mirror
opposite
my hair's long
so's my beard
my eyes tired

long way yet
I tell her
there's Denmark
there's Sweden
and Norway

she thinks of
all the sights
on the way
through Europe

I think of
all the stops
all the bars

the shared nights
the hot ***
in the tent
on the thin
sleeping bed

the mornings
waking up
a bird song
from outside
and she there
still sleeping
by my side.

Aubrey took in the dame
in the red dress, her hams
moving under the tight cloth,
her ringed fingers showing

as she moved her hands, the
pointed dugs like small noses
pressed against the redness.
He took in her hair, noticed

the colour, the waves, the  
highlights. He sipped coffee.
Cappuccino, white froth on
his upper lip, wiped off with

the back of his hand. She
stood window shopping;
stood moving her legs, her
hams in **** motion still.

He leaned back. He eased
against the chair. She had
stooped forward. Her eyes
price gauging, hands behind

her back, holding a hand
bag, rings showing. He
settled on her neckline.
A necklace, silver, a cross

without a Christ. She turned
and gazed up the shopping
mall. She sighed. He watched.
Sipped coffee. The waitress

who brought it walked with
a wiggle. Tiny backside, tight,
she thin as if some Modigliani
dame. She walked by holding

an empty tray. Wiggled, head
level. The dame in the red dress
turned and faced him. Their
eyes met; green on brown;

hers on his. She looked away
taking nothing of him. He
drank in her eyes and mouth;
lingered in his darkroom mind.

He sipped again. She folded
her arms, handbag hanging,
eyeing her small gold watch.
Aubrey took in her legs,

the hairlessness, the silk
smooth suntanned legs.
Younger he may have
drooled; now he just

gazed and gazed. She
looked up the long mall.
He sat up and downed
his coffee. Her Romeo,

if such, arrived. They
embraced; he swung
her around. Excitement,
bright eyes, smiles.

They walked off. Aubrey
watched her go, not
unhappy or ill, he'd had
his sight and had his fill.

O the rain yesterday
Miriam says
didn't it come down?
I thought once

in San Sabastian
all would be well
and then it poured
I sit next to her

in the camp cafe
others from the coach
were there
some looked fed up

with the weather
I know
the guide said to me
and the ex-army guy

there's your tent
down in the field
and it was pouring
down with rain

and we could hardly see
and the ex-army guy
says to me  
what the heck

I thought
by coming here
I'd get away
from manoeuvres

what's he like?
she asks
he's ok I guess
I say

bet you wish
it was me
in your tent?
she says

be a bit crowded
three of us
not with him
just me and you

o sure
that'd go down
a bundle with him
and others

I say
but I like to think
it was possible
especially as

the ex-army guy
kept me awake
a good part
of the night

moaning about
his mother's
new boyfriend
and how he gets

on his nerves
and how the army
was once his life
anyway maybe later

we can
she says
I nod
and think of her

on the journey
down from Paris
on the coach
her next to me

the dim lights
on the coach
through the Parisian night
us kissing

and such
doing all right.

Yesterday was a dark doomer.
I thought I saw you
here and there
in the other town
where once we wandered
years ago.

Grief had a field day,
keeping me low.

I wandered shops
with the others
and alone, feeling
on the edge, looking
into that dark abyss.

I bought a Hunter
Thompson book
from the cheap
book shop,
the girl gave me a,
why did you buy that?
kind of look;
young girl,
bored maybe,
thinking of her
boyfriend or girlfriend
or whosoever.

I thought of you,
you, my son,
the way you went,
the unanswered
questions so far,
holding your hand
as you slipped away,
flat-lining heart.

We had sandwiches
and drank,
in the inside café;
watched other people
do their thing,
life going on,
unaware
that dark doomers
were sitting there.

But of course,
you knew, you were
probably there
unseen by us,
eating a burger
and sipping a cola,
(at least
in that spirit world
as we think,)
looking at us,
sipping your drink.

You **** the socks; listen
To the radio; look
At the hole slowly get

Smaller and smaller. Jazz
From some far off station;
A tune you recognize,

Your foot taps up and down
To the beat. You smile; nod
Your head; let your deep thoughts

Slowly unravel like
A flower. Was that Bud
Powell? You ask, slipping the

Needle through the dark black
Material, easing
The thread through. But where was

Jack? Late. Usually he
Was home by now. You pause
Your fingers; stare at the

Needle; listen for sounds
Other than the jazz. Jack
Said he would be here his

Usual time, you tell
Yourself, looking at the
Clock on the wall. Stillness

And only Bud playing
In the background to your
Thoughts. Maybe he’s had an

Accident? Perhaps he’s
Been robbed of his wage? So
Terrible these days, the streets.

Your thoughts run amok like
Mischievous children.
You stare at the sock on

Your hand. Jack’s sock. **** these
For me, he had asked that
Morning. You push the small

Needle through again, pull
It out and slowly ease
It towards you. Maybe

He’s been caught in traffic
Or the train is late or…
Is that the door? You put

Down the sock and go to
The door. Two policemen stand
There; Bud plays soft in the

Background of the room; your
Feet no longer tap; your
Head sinks to your breast; far

Off some news is about
To break like a tidal
Wave against the calm coast

Of your life and drown you
In the great sea of grief.

Having washed her doll
Battered Betty in the baby
bath, Helen dries it in an
old towel her mother gave

her, rubbing it with her
childish motherly attention
to detail. That done, she
dresses Betty in some doll's

clothes her father brought
home from a  junk shop
on his way home one Friday.
She wraps Betty in a fading

shawl, and goes to the front
door. Where you off to? her
mother asks. Taking Betty
out for a walk, she replies.

Where abouts? probably
to Jail Park, Helen says.
Watch out for strange men,
her mother says. I'm with

Benedict, Helen says. O,
well that's OK then, her
mother says, relieved,
pushing damp hair from

her lined forehead. Helen
goes out the front door
and walks along to the
railway bridge next to the

Duke of Wellington pub
where Benedict said to
met him. She pats the doll's
back as she walks, tightens

the shawl to keep the doll
warm. Benedict is waiting
by the pub wall; his cowboy
hat is pushed back, 6 shooter

gun is tucked in the belt
of his short trousers. Helen
sees him before he sees her,
she prepares herself: licks

fingers to dampen down her
hair, straightens her thick
lens spectacles, wipes her
nose on the back of her hand.

Am I late? she says as she
approaches him. He pushes
himself from the wall, his 6
shooter quickly out of the belt,

he blows the end. No, he says,
just thinking of the Billy-the-Kid
I saw at the cinema the other day.
Got shot. Died. I wouldn’t have

done that, I'd not have turned my
back on the marshal whatever
his name was. Helen rocks Betty
in her small arms. Given Betty

a bath, she says, nice and clean now.  
Benedict gives the doll a glance,
puts his gun away in the belt.
Good, he says, can't have our

kid *****. Helen smiles, no, we
can't, can we, she says. Mum
says to look out for strange men,
she adds as an after thought.

Benedict pats his gun, no strange
man will get to you or Betty,
he says determinedly. Just as
Mum says, Helen says quietly,

looking at the cowboy beside
her, his hat now pushed forward,
his hazel eyes focusing, on her
and the doll. Let's go walk, he

says, I'll give you and Betty
a push on the swings and
roundabout. So they walk up
Bath Terrace, she telling him

about a boy at school calling
her four eyes, and he musing
of putting a couple of slugs in
the kid's head: BANG BANG,

the caps will go, just smoke,
no holes, no death, or if he chose,
maybe a good sock in the nose.

Yehudit places a tin
on the shelf,
then looks at me.

Don't finish until late.

What about after?

Need to get a bus home;
I get tired.

I watch her
as she moves to get
another tin
to fill the shelf.

When's your day off?

Sunday and half-day
Thursday,
she says,
looking over
at the store manger
who is talking
to a customer.

I work most Sundays,
I say,
can see you
Thursday afternoon,
I guess.

She carries a box out back,
and I wait by the shelves,
pretending to be
interested in soups.

She returns
with another full box;
she puts it on the floor
and opens it up.

I finish at 1pm;
meet me by the café,
we can talk there
and maybe arrange
to meet another time,
she says.

Ok, I’ll be there.

She puts tins on shelves,
eyeing the manager
who walks on through.

He doesn't like us girls
to chat up
during work time.

Maybe the *******
hasn't got girl
in his life,
I say.

He's got a wife
and daughter.

He's back
and gives her a stare.

I best go,
I say,
see you Thursday.

She nods
and I go,
giving the manager
my John Wayne stare,
but he just looks away
and doesn't care.

The silence of her frightens you. You stare at her laid out body and feel the want to hold her and kiss her but you know she’s dead and that she will feel nothing of your love again or sense your warmth. Drowned. So suddenly, so quickly. There one moment laughing and full of life and then gone. You gaze at her, at her flesh, at her fingernails. She kept herself so clean, so neat and tidy. The fingernails are trimmed exactly, no rough edges, no uneven part, all just so. Perfection. You run a finger along her ribs; sense the bones beneath the skin. So young, so fresh, so new. You lean forward and kiss her brow. Cold and still. The ginger hair with its boyish cut feels soft as if you had just washed and combed it. No, some other did that, combed it so. You stand back and take in each aspect of her. Her head is reclined upon a small pillow so that the head is tilted forward slightly; the eyes are closed as if in sleep, the pale eyelids like small smooth shells. You lean forward slowly and kiss each one. Secretly you hope that she wakes up and opens her eyes, but she doesn’t, she just lies there motionless, lifeless. You gave birth to her, brought her into the world, heard her first cries, saw her first clenched and unclenched fists, the first sign of her lips opening and closing seeking your *******. She seeks them no more. Seeks nothing now; all seeking is at an end. Her thin arms are laid down by her sides, the hands slightly turned outward as if to say, look at me now Mother, see I am perfected. Not yet a woman, but just about to enter that arena, just about to start her menstrual cycle, her first feeling of breast about to begin. All stopped before it could blossom; stilled in the bud. She has your nose, not her father’s. Your lips, not his. Those lips, wanting to kiss and be kissed, wanting once to ****, are still and chilled now. You want to kiss them, want them to open and her words to speak, her tongue to poke out at you as she would often in fun. The lips are sealed. She speaks no more, nor laughs nor cries. You cradled her when she had her first bleed, that frightened her, thought she was about to die. You ought to have warned her, have mentioned the facts of life to her, but you didn’t, you wanted her to remain your little girl, your baby, not become a woman, not grow up and become lost to you. You bite your lips. She is lost to you now. Lying there on that marble slab like so much wasted flesh. You cry. For the first time you begin to let the tears flow, let them just come, no holding them back now, no more pretence, no more trying to be brave, you feel them on your cheeks, the dampness, the eyes watering to such a degree that is becomes a blur. You wipe your eyes with your hand; want to see each aspect of her before they cover her over again with the sheet, before she’s taken from your sight forever. You can hear yourself cry now, the sound is wounding, as if someone tore at your soul. No one comes; they leave you alone, leave you to this last meeting, this final confrontation with your daughter. How still she is. So motionless. How pale, how thin. Why her? Why now? You lean close to her chest, put your ear there in the hope you may hear her heart beat, some small hope that the doctors are wrong, but there is no heartbeat, nothing. She looks at peace, you think. Yes, at peace. As if in sleep. She used to sleep like that when you would enter her room to see if she was all right at night and there she would be sleeping like this. As if nothing could disturb. Nothing to disturb. Nothing. Your tears have fallen on her cheek as if she was crying too. You wipe them gently away with your fingers. You whisper to her. You utter words in her ear. Save a place for me where you are, you say softly, keep a place for me to be with you. You want her to nod her head or open her lips and say, yes, Mother, of course I will. But she doesn’t, she just lies motionless and silent. The silence of her frightens you. You move away as the door opens and the others enter. They gather around dressed in black like you, as silent as she, but alive, thinking, feeling, sensing, unlike her. You wish you could be laying beside her now, side-by-side, close in death as you had been in life, hands touching. They begin to murmur, the others, gently whisper to you, time to go, time to leave her be. But you can’t, the effort of leaving tears at your very being, drags at your soul, pulls you into the darkness. Someone covers her with the white sheet and she is gone and all you see is the outline of perfection dressed in white like some bride only there is no wedding, no bridegroom, only the dark reaper, edging his way closer into the room as you are pulled gently away and out of the small room with the last image of your daughter sealed in your mind.

Yiska gobbed
on the window pane
in the locked ward.

I stood next to her
and gazed out
the window.

Snow was on the fields
and on the tops of trees.

She smelt
of carbolic soap.

The spittle dripped down
the glass pane.  

Couldn't sleep,
Yiska said.

Bad dream?

Each day
is a bad dream.

A rook disturbed snow
on a tree top.

What doesn't **** us,
I said.

Turns us mad,
she said.

Makes us stronger,
I read some place.

Are we stronger?

Slow snow flakes
drifted by the window.

She wiped the spittle
with the sleeve
of her long
purple night gown.

I don't dream
of him any more,
she said,
don't dream
of the ****.

The word hung
in the air about us
like an angry bee.

What do you
dream about?
I asked.

The church,
the altar, people
watching me
in my white dress,
but not of him.

Has your mind
shut him out?

Hope so.

The snow fell harder.
Black birds
took flight
into the grey dawn.

What do you
dream about?
She asked.

A bell rope,
a tower,
ticking clock.

She sighed.
Her small ****
seemed stiff
in the dawn light.

Have you stopped
slitting your wrist?

So far.

That hanging attempt
had those nurses
******* themselves
with panic.

I recalled the face
of a nurse
mouthing words
through the small panel
of glass that evening.

Someone
turned on the radio.

The night nurse
gazed at us
by the window.

We saw her reflected
in the window
as if in a mirror.

Plump in her uniform,
her dark hair
tied in a bun.

Yiska moved away
leaving her carbolic perfume
on the air like
a disturbed memory.

I just continued
to vacantly stare.

Shamira looks
at the sleeve
of the LP:
Mahler's 6th,
box set.

You shouldn't
spoil me.

Summer evening,
a country lane,
high hedges.

I wanted you
to have it;
it's what I think
you'll enjoy.

You can't afford
to buy me
these gifts;
you don’t have
to buy me anything.

I know;
I want to.

We go
to the local pub
and she has a wine
and I have a beer.

We sit outside,
watching the sun setting.

How are your parents?

She looks at me.

My mother's ok,
but my father's
not sure of you.

Thought not;
the way he looks at me;
different class,
I guess.

I sip my beer;
she sips her wine.

I like her
long brown hair,
tied in a ponytail;
her brown eyes,
sharp,
not deceived,
intelligent.

He worries about me,
she says,
wants the best for me.

Can't blame him;
I’m just a nurse
and poet.

She smiles.

It's more than that,
he looks to the future,
wants me up there
where my education
and grooming
is setting me.

Do you see me
as holding you back?

I don't look at things
like that;
it is people in themselves
that matters.

I light up a cigarette;
she sips her wine.

Anyway, I’m off
to university next month,
so I won't see
you that often,
she says.

Guess not.

I know she'll meet
other of her class there;
more educated,
more moneyed.

Our brief encounter
will be a history;
our love making
an episode
or margin note
in the book
of her future life.

I inhale;
I like
how she looks;
I like her small *******;
her neat
compact body
poured into her jeans
and tee shirt;
she a father's princess,
me
a dead beat flirt.

There was a certain
Delicacy in
The dead child’s hands. She

Remembers it now,
The way her digit
Moved along the thin

Fingers before the
Blue tinge came. Smooth and
Fragile like fine bone

China and almost
Transparent after
The child’s illness came.

She held her child in
Her lap for fifteen
Minutes after death

Came; no one disturbed;
Gave her any crap
Or words of advice.

Just her and her child;
The warmness going
Like short summer’s end.

The eyelids like white
Shells. She stroked the hands,
Pretending that life

Would return with each
Gentle rub; the eyes
Open with a small

Short flutter. Nothing
Happened, she recalls,
Thinking back, just those

Minutes alone, that
Final hug and gaze
And kiss of the cheeks,

Knowing the flowing
Of time’s smooth sands. There
Was, she recalls, a

Delicacy in
The dead child’s small hands.

You lay there
on the bed
with tubes and wires
coming from body and head.  

Tubes from mouth and nose,
eyes, those large eyes,
bright, laughing, kind,
now closed seemingly
in deep sleep.

You unaware
we were there,
we who loved you
and would have tipped
the scales of the world
to have you safe
and back with us,
who would have given you
limbs or body parts or eyes,
would have searched
the dark corridors of death
to have brought you back,
back with us, us whom
you loved and who loved you.

You lay there still and silent,
the day unfolding,
the artificial light betraying
the hours passing,
the minutes ticking away,
the hushed conversations
between us who watched
and waited, talks to you,
the telling of how things
had been and would be again;
clutching at hope like some rope,
wishing you on, watching
the dials of the machine,
the flashing lights, the hums,
the sounds, and you so still,
Stoic until the end, your
puffed up body, tinged with blue;
your hands, warm, soft,
which we took turns to hold,
arms which would have once
embraced, now still, unmoving,
touched, as if we might wake you,
see your large eyes open,
that hint of a smile, your smile,
that infamous smile and spread of lips.

You lay on the bed, tubed and wired,
unaware we were there watching
from the shore towards a deep sea
of approaching dark unbelievable death,
or maybe you were aware of us
standing or sitting there, taking
your last walk amongst us, unseen,
touching us, brushing a hand
against us as you passed,
and we unaware of you going by,
right until the last second of time
as we watched you die.

The French
peasant monk
pushed a wheel barrow

along by
the abbey church;
the squeaky wheels

echoing through
the nearby wood
and throughout

the silent cloister;
his tonsured head
lowered,

back bent,
prayers simple
maybe said.

I tended
the dying monk,
aged and fragile

as an ancient script
of yesteryear;
I recalled how

she tongued me
along
my inner thighs,

bringing tears of joy
into my hazel eyes.
Dom Gregory prepared

the altar for mass,
laying the altar cloth,
preparing the priest monk's

robes and gowns,
making sure
the candles were ready;

his footfalls
like echoes  
on a deep deep sea.

Early morning
book on Schopenhauer
under your arm
cigarettes

in your pocket
you sat in one
of the cafes
in Dubrovnik

having ordered
a coffee
and lit up
to smoke

the book
put on the table
the ashtray
set so

you observed
the passing people
the females mostly
the gentler ***

as is said
the sway of skirt
or dress
the fine legs

the shape of foot
the figures
slim or plump
the mental study

of the shape of ***
the tightness
of ****
and all the while

at the back
of the mind
the idea of God
the faith required

seemingly lacking
the St Augustine view
wanting to be saved
from sin

but not just yet
the waiter
brought coffee
and cake

just the nibble
for the breakfast’s sake
and you thought
on the night before

the walk in the City
the lights lit up
the passing crowds
the concert

some pianist
playing Chopin
you and your brother
side by side

taking it all in
making the most of
and the indulgence
of wine

and the chatting up
of the waitresses
at the hotel
with no success

and you opened
the Schopenhauer book
the print of page
the scatter of words

ideas too deep
for the morning sun
you closed it up
and sipped the coffee

took a drag
on the cigarette
viewed the cute ***
as it passed you by

summer dresses
short skirts
tight tops
in all colours

shoes or bare feet
to please the eye
and the idea of God
observing

listening in
secretly pleading
maybe you do
or do not

to be absolved
from sometime
the deeper sin.

The monk raises
the host
during Mass,
high between fingers

and thumbs,
head and eyes
look up,
the Body of Christ,

he tones.
I watch
the old monk eat;
his jaw moving

in a semi circle
as he ate,
his eyes down
on his plate,

an old French
soup spoon
half way
from bowl to lips.

I remember her hands
sorting through
my garments
for the fellow,

her eyes intent,
her fingers nimble
as an artisan's.
A French peasant monk

peels potatoes
in the kitchen
with the seriousness
of Van Gogh

in a darker mood,
thinking of deeper things
than wine or food.

Della walks
with her father
onto the beach.
Sand, sun,

sea going out.
Sea,
she says
love it.

Her father looks at her,
takes in her smile,
her well kempt hair,
the tip of her tongue

resting there
on her lower lip.
Did your mother
pack your swim gear?

Packed it in my bag.
Where's the bag?
She looks back
towards the car

parked by the road.
You must try
to remember
these things.

I did, then I forgot.
It doesn’t help.
Angry sounds.
He sighs.

Stay here, don't move,
he says
and walks back
towards the car,

over the sand,
hands in the pockets
of his black jeans.
She watches him walk.

Angry walk,
she thinks.
She sees him
most Saturdays,  

sometimes Sundays,
since
the divorce.
He gets to the car

and takes out
her pink bag,
locks the car
and treads back

towards her,
his face dark
and unsmiling.
Like smiling faces.

There you are,
he says.
She takes the bag
and they

walk down
towards the sea.
He gets out
a large beach towel

and lays it down
on the sand.
Here we are.
Sea smells salty.

It does.
If you sniff it
it gets up your nose.
He nods,

gets out a book
and begins to read.
Makes your nose feel salty.
She looks at her father,

he stares at the page
of his book.
Can I go into the sea?
Be careful.

She stare sat him.
Shall I get on
my swimming
costume here?

Yes,
he says,
turning a page.
People will see me.

They do.
Mum holds the towel
up around me.
He sighs and gets up

and gets out
a large coloured towel.
OK then,
get your gear on.

She takes out
her swimming costume
from her bag
and drops the bag

on the sand.
She looks at him.
Mum puts the towel
around

me so people
can't see me.
He sighs
and puts the towel

around her,
stares out
at the beach.
She takes off

her cat patterned top
and drops it down.
Then she removes
her skirt and underwear

and quickly,
but awkwardly
puts on her costume.
He looks at ships

on the horizon.
Seagulls,
bathers,
families and lovers.

She pulls at the costume
to get it comfortable.
Done it.
Good.

He folds the towel,
puts it beside him
and begins to read again.
She stands looking at the waves.

Mum walks me to the waves.
Why?
In case I slip.
You're a big girl now.

What if I slip?
He lifts his eyes
from the page.
You won't.

Mum holds my hand in case.
Your mum does
a lot of things
I don't.

He reads on.
She stares at him
for a few moments,
then unhappily

walks down
towards the waves.
She has her hands out
like a tightrope walker,

to balance herself
over the sharp stones,
here and there.
She reaches the area

where the waves rush in.
She stands there looking out.
She sniffs the air. Salty.
People around her stare.

A child laughs.
Two boys whisper.
She walks into the water.
The sea is warm,

rushes over her feet.
She clutches her hands together,
looks at the boys.
Warm water.

Wet, too.
The boy grins.
She's a Mongol,
the other boy says.

Funny features,
the other says,
big lips, and tongue.
She looks back at her father

reading up on the beach.
She paddles deeper.
Leaves the boys behind.
The waves rush against her knees.

She claps her hands,
hugs herself,
feels hers small *******.
The sea is crowded

with bathers.
Noise, laughter
and shouts fill the air.
She stands still.

A boy splashes her.
She puts her hands
over her face
to keep the water

from her eyes.
He rushes back
towards the beach,
laughing.

The water rushes
to her thighs.
Best not get out too far, deary,
a woman says nearby.

I'm Della,
not Deary,
she says.
The woman nods and smiles,

well be careful, Della.
The sea can be  dangerous.
Mum says
be careful.

Yes, you must.
Mum's not here.
Who's with you?
My dad's with me.

Where is he?
Della points towards the sand
where her father
is reading his book.

Be careful, Della,
the woman says.
Be careful, mum says.
Yes, be careful,

the woman repeats.
The woman gazes at Della.
Sees her vacant expression.
Her daughter died

the year before.
Drowned.
Della  looks back
at her father

sitting reading.
Mum watches me.
So she should.
Dangerous place the sea.

Della stares
at the incoming
rush of waves,
loud shush of the sea.

Your dad should watch you, too,
the woman says.
He reads.
He should watch you.

Della hugs herself tighter.
Best not get in
much deeper, Della dear,
the woman says.

Deep.
Gets to my thighs.
Yes, higher
than you ought to go.

Frightened.
Let's go back,
the woman says.
Della clutches

her arms tighter.
I fell last time,
and got salty water
in my mouth.  

Sickly.
Was sick after.
In the car.
The woman smiles.

Let's walk back  
to your dad.
The woman holds out
a hand.

Della hesitates.
Her father
is reading his book.
She puts out her hand

and holds
the woman's hand
and they walk up
towards the beach.

The warm hand holds her.
Far from
her father's sight
and the deep sea's reach.

Your father has paid
Good money for the
Artist. Sit very still,

Deepta, the man needs
You not to fidget, he
Says, placing his hairy

Hands on your shoulder.
Why must women move
So? Is stillness alien to

Your nature? You thought
He was going to laugh or
Smile but he does not; his

Lips disappear into his huge
Moustache and beard. The
Artist moves you to the left

Slightly, his small hands
Moulding you to the position
He requires, his eyes studying

You, dark brown, you notice,
The thin moustache thinly
Grown. Your father stands

Where he can see you. He  
Folds his arms and stands
Stiffly. The artist seems

Nervous, he fiddles with
His charcoal, his fingers as
A dancer warming up before

The dance, his eyes moving
Over you as if his mind has
Already taken you in, has

Swallowed you in a huge
Gulp. Father nods, then rather
Slowly leaves the room, his

Hairy hands behind his back,
His fingers crossed. You
Breathe easy; the artist blows

Out air, his anxiety away, he
Smiles at you. Men often smile
At you, it is their way of

Capturing your image for
Their sleepless nights, for
Their empty lives, replacing

Your beauty for the dullness
And ugliness of their wives.

Deep within
where none else goes

the hard grief grows
and just when you think

you are moving on a bit
it comes back

with the painful hit
moving you back

to yesteryears
which move to tears

the little boy
the growing lad

young man
grown man

and deep loved son
all wrapped up in one

big bundle of memories
unfolding and moving

and having moved
to edge of hurt and pain

the whirlpool
of all emotions spin

in that secret chamber
deep within

where none else goes
the deep grief grows

Hadasa
deflowered
lay smiling

on the floor
of the gym
amongst ropes

P.E. mats
skipping ropes
behind thick

black curtains
we listen
for voices

coming near
the gym door
or anyone

entering
from outside
no one comes

in recess
she tells me
the teacher

of P.E.
never comes
she goes home

I am glad
this moment
would be spoilt

if someone
came in now
I reply

she puts her
underclothes
back on slow

savouring
the moment
of freedom

I pull up
and zip up
then we lay

looking up
at the gym
what would we

have done if
they'd come in?
she asks me

I don't know
I reply
but I do

imagine
us frozen
laying there

you beneath
my body
me on top

backside bare.

Delia who had bedded her
French nanny at fourteen
and had hot *** with the head

girl at boarding school, now
lies beside the arts tutor named
Ms Shopton in college. She has

explored the woman’s body from
top to toe. Invaded each orifice
and landed her ninety ninth

plus umpteenth kiss. Sunlight
pours through the high window,
the woman’s scent and body

odour invades the bed. She has
kissed most parts that can be kissed,
scanned the woman’s skin, taking

in the freckles, the spots, the mole
inside the left thigh, run her finger
along the spine. She watches the

woman sleep, the mouth slightly ajar,
the perfect teeth, the tongue (who
knows where that has been) touching

the corner of the lips. She may well
get a high A for this piece of art work,
the effort put in, the juices taken out,

the ******* and touching, the final lay.
She breathes in the air, runs her tongue
across her own damp lips. She hears

the college bell, the time to get up, the
breakfast call, the wide awake stare.
The woman beside her sleeps on, lying

worn out, out for the count, lying there.

Delia
once seduced

the house maid
in half term

home from school
some posh place

where she had
with success

oft bedded
the new young

maths teacher
whose glasses

thin wired
she took off

before ***
in her room

for extra
tuition

(her father
from his fat

wallet paid
for extra

maths not ***)
then after

leaving school
and the young

maths teacher
(sad female)

and having
bedded her

young cousin's
French nanny

she went to
some college

to study
the cello

and music
she had ***

the first day
with the thin

trumpeter
on the floor

above her
a girl with

luscious lips
and dark eyes

who after
a good ****

could play like
Miles Davis  

so cool that
Delia

would play her
cello ****

like lovers
embracing

she and her
instrument

then have ***
to the sound

of Coltrane's
saxophone

and the girls'
******

wanting more
sighs and moans.

She rises from bed and stares
out the window. Another day.
No new horizons. Why do
people talk such crap, she muses,

senses the hangover bite in.
He said it was just a *** thing,
no strings, see what a new
tomorrow brings. Her mother

had this thing about what the
neighbours said, how things
looked from another’s perspective.  
There is a damp patch where

her hand has touched, blood,
bright red. She sees him or rather
his outline in the dark of the night
before. All ten minutes of excitement,

a two-bit joy. Her hand runs over
the patch, feels the stickiness.
Depression digs in its feet, plunges
in its dark claws, rips through her

sense of being, sees the outside
city, no real care, no pity, just what
is she seeing? Shadows and outlines,
people, cars, streets, sun, clouds,

business out there. She wants her
mother back, the loss of all those
years ago, lingering in the back of
her mind and center of her heart.

Depression and the black dog tear
All things and love and life apart.

Monica watched Benedict
practise Judo
with her brothers
on the grass
by the fence.

She watched
from her bedroom window.
She had parted
the drawn curtains
with her fingers

enough to see
without being seen.
She cheered him on
in an urgent voice.
She would have gone down

and cheered him on
from the sidelines,
but she was still
in her nightwear
and by the time

she had a wash
and dressed
they would be gone.
Watching him
made her excited;

it was a physical thing,
something she could
almost point to,
sense and touch
with her fingers.

She stared down at him,
watched his every move.
Sometimes he would
take on both boys
at a time and defeat

them both, other times
he took them
one at a time
and they would end up
on their backs

on the grass.
Wish he would put me
on the grass, she whispered
to the pane of glass,
touch me

as he does them.
She couldn’t describe
how he made her feel.
Whom could she ask?
Her mother would

scorn her
for even asking
such a question.
She wished she had
a sister to ask,

but all she had
was three brothers.
There was cheering
from outside, Benedict
had fallen. He had

miscalculated a move
and fallen on his back.
There was laughter
as he rose and dusted
himself off.

Oh, she murmured.
She put a hand
to her lips.
His head turned
towards the window;

she backed away.
Had he seen her?
Heard her voice?
She moved back
to the window

and peered out.
They were practising again.
But this time
it was karate,
they were breaking

pieces of wood
with the side
of their hands.
She wished
she could be out there.

Near him,
sensing him close to her.
He came most Saturdays
to be with her brothers.

They worked in the week
at the nurseries
half mile away.
Sometimes she was up early
and caught him

before her brothers were out
and she talked with him.
Once he took her
to see the peacocks,
riding on their bikes

to get there.
She had wanted him
to kiss her, but he hadn’t.
So near to her,
yet she daren’t

reach out
and touch him, that day.
She stood at the window
and stared at him.
He had taken off

his jacket and was
in tee shirt and jeans.
They fought each other now,
their blows barely touching,
the karate touches

merely skimming the skin.
Odd this sensation
flowing through me,
she said, this expanding
desire within.

Mrs Wren said
she'd have her husband back
if she could
but the guy was just

too wrapped up
in himself
and even though he thinks
the world of his kid

he thinks of other things
or others more
like that time
when he promised to come

to the kid's birthday party
and didn't show
o
he said  

I had some one come call
and I didn't want to send
them away
(woman probably

the one he has at the office
who cleavage is to die for)
and that other time
when he said he'd

have the kid
while I had a trip
with the girls out
but no at the last minute

he doesn't show
it's all I had the flu
or I had one of my heads
(more like

the ***** turned up)
and I had to stay at home
while the girls went
and had a good time

or that other time
when he said I
was the most important person
in his life

and wanted me
as his wife
then he goes off
with a smooth talking

wiggly *** girl
with her own car
and only after
he'd got as far

as he could with her
did he return tail
( or something)
between his legs

and flowers
and chocs
and o so sorry honey
I had her all wrong

it's you who mean
the most to me
or that time
when we were on

our honeymoon
( the kid conceived
that time)
and walking arm in arm

along the beach
him spewing
all the words
the romantic stuff

but eyeing all the girls
taking in their bikinis
or their shapeliness
and one even came up

and had the nerve
to chat him up
while I stood there
giving her the glare

and he o so Mr Cool
forgetting me standing
like a fool
or that afternoon

I found him in our bed
with that woman upstairs
the one who borrowed
the sugar each week

and all he said was
you know me honey
I'm weak
I can't resist the eyes

but there you go
Mrs Wren said
I love him so
despite the lies.

Under the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street,
Benedict met his cousin
who said: your mum’s home
with your twin sisters,
best get home quick.

So he did and when he
got to the flat where
they lived he found
his mother holding
one of the babies
in an armchair,
breast feeding her.

His mother said his
other sister was in
the cot in her bedroom.

He entered the bedroom quietly.
He approached the cot
and looked over. There she was
his youngest sister, asleep.

Now he had to share
his mother with two more;
his other sister and brother
and he made five.
A five way split.
Less shares.

But not necessarily
less love or attention.
His mother had
a unique way
of stretching love
and attention
like a magican.

He smiled down
at the baby, touched
the dark curly hair
with a finger.
The baby stirred.
He withdrew his finger
and stood and stared.

After a few minutes
he returned to his mother
and the other sister.
The other baby was plumper,
more rounded,
chubby cheeks and such.

His mother looked tired,
drained. He hadn’t seen her
for a few weeks, except
short hospital visits, once
he remembered he stood
outside in the evening air,
staring up at the sky
with moon and stars.

His mother laid the baby
in the cot with the other.
They lay there together
in separate sleeps,
occupying their own
new dreams, hands
tight in tiny fists.

He watched while his mother
went off to prepare tea.
After a short while he left
the room and drew
the door shut
with a gentle click.

One hand on the door,
the other on the handle,
drawn towards him
did the trick.

Did you go
to Vegas
after all?

Does the Spirit World
permit such?

I hope you go
if you've not been
and are allowed,
my son;
there ghostly
amongst the gamblers
who have lost or won.

I think of you
good part
of my time,
or suddenly
out of the blue,
something
some tune or photo
brings to mind, you.

I used to be ignorant
of grief's ache,
the hurt loss brings,
but not anymore,
not since you've
been gone.

You gone,
just like that,
no big farewells,
just the final words
vague now
and possibly banal
as most
in real life are,
like faded lights
of a burnt out star.

Magdalene
sits crossed legged

on the floor
as Mary

sings along
with Elvis

as he sings
from the small

transistor
radio

by her bed
Magdalene

loves the way
her eyes shine

as she sings
likes to stare

at the tight
tiny ****

which press firm
against her

white school blouse
also likes

to study
Mary’s thighs

and dreams oft
in her bed

twisting hot
that Mary’s

soft body
and luscious

limbs and heart
lay beside

her in bed
Mary’s not

aware of
Magdalene's

secret wants
but thinks of

the tall boy
whom she met

in the park
and let kiss

her thin lips
but smacked his

ink-stained hand
away from

her tight ****
and other

sensitive
secret bits

knowing that
her father

finding out
would strap her

one and knock
the boy out.

Yochana says she plays
beautiful music
but I have no way

of knowing unless
she plays for me  
so we get

to the music room
in school before
Miss G arrives

and Yochana opens up
the piano and sits
and begins to play

some classic stuff
her thin fingers
going over

the keyboard
with ease
making beautiful music

I watch her sitting there  
I'm by the door
as look out

taking in the music
looking up
the corridor

then back at her playing
her thin body moving
gently side to side

her hands moving
back and forth
visible then invisible

then I see Miss G coming
she's coming
I say

and Yochana stops playing
mid tune and it hangs
on the air

like a wounded bird
and Yochana goes and sits
in her chair by her desk

and I sit at the back
of class waiting
for the tune to go

and dissolve
taking in Yochana's
dark hair

and slim waist
and the remembered kiss
waiting for the tune

to stop
and the arrival
of old Miss.

Dodo draws on the cigarette.
The smoke hits the throat.
The city ***** her in with its
huge sick well of emptiness.
Bagteller wanted her to go
to his place last night and make
passionate love. What a laugh
that’d been. Him and his fetishes.
The schoolgirl uniform was not
her thing. Too many memories.
She told him to stuff that in one
of his tight dark orifices and walked
out into the city’s cold night. Went
home to her own place and took
a hot shower. She is still sore from
the scrub. She wants to scrub her
past away with the brush and soap.
Nothing washes away the memories
that have sunk deep. She wakes to
a new day. The city is buzzing with
the walking dead and half living.
The cigarette smoke fills her lungs
and then out into the air. Mother said
men were not to be trusted. Father
said don’t listen to her she’s biased
and ****** and smells of sour cream.
Oh that I could open up my mind and
wash it out and not have to see that
shrink once a month just after my bleeds
have gone she says. Dr Glexity with his
black suit and blue tie one green eye and
one grey. All that **** money and nothing
to say. She inhales the smoke and the city
and the living and the dead and ***** them
into her lungs broken heart and stuffed head.