I always found you attractive,
since I first saw you in the schoolroom.
Cheerful friend, shining, finely moulded.
Later you climbed above my class.
I was shy, lacking nous.

Then we moved up - single-*** schools,
repressed when our feelings flexed.
Vexed with books, exams, homework,
competing for our chosen paths.

We work in neighbouring labs.
Please answer my lovelorn phone calls.
You're still my magnet,
and I'm your iron filings.

We say it's work, but hardly
in progress. Nothing changes
except ourselves, filing regrets
that we must watch wait and record.

We write as best we can,
not knowing why our words
come out portraying
misery, mystery and hope.

It is said that poets are born,
not made, but we are made
when someone reads our work.

I shouldn't have bothered.
I thought this was a posh area.
Now I see it's not.
'Tommy Rot!'

Look at the gardens.
The lawns are covered in weeds.
'*******! We grow herbs a lot.'

Even you're car's a mess.
Not been cleaned in ages.
'I wash it often,
every guilt trip day.'

And those dogs, do they howl all night?
'Oh no. Nothing like that.
It's just the neighbours in a fight.'

They say that mirror smashing
leads to seven years of fear,
and ladder dodging
leaves you in the clear.

I don't believe in luck,
accidents perhaps,
but just make sure you don't
step on the pavement cracks.

'Coming, ready or not.' Now I'm prepared,
watching, waiting, hyperventilating,
hiding by the back yard gate.
Should I peep or close my eyes,
pretend a ghostly disguise.

Cold rough brick won't build my life.
Pete formed attachments, made them pay
and called the tune until the day
when bricks collapsed, crushing his disguise.

I saw him white haired, small bent.
There were pictures, Cheshire men,
comrades, serious, smiling, unsure.
His later trenches were for spuds.

On postcard he's crouched by a road,
grinning, rifle aimed at camera,
a shot of friendly fire from France bound home.

He didn't talk about the War,
except to say the food was good.
The youth grew into the uniform.
Gran said he came home mid blown.

A small nest in a large sea,
the beat of the blades keeps
time for those still alive,
whose desperate waves
defy tide timetables.

The camera zooms in on
anguished faces and still ones.
We lean forward screened from pain,
listening to the death count,
time and time and time again.