I am the all-seeing eye
that has no iris
no retina
no cornea
no sweeping lashes
to sweep away tears
no expression of
sadness or laughter
no opening wide
with horror or with fear
Yes I am the all-seeing eye
R A D A R
they call me
the far sighted
all-seeing eye
that shows no emotion
no sheds a cleansing tear
yet see far
and sounds
the warning clear

In that small over-heated compartment
she touched his face tenderly
looked into his eyes, those deep-set dark eyes
that she saw even in sleep
and saw in his smile the promise of love
that she knew that she would forever keep
there in her heart, all through the moments, hours
days, weeks, months, stretching into years
that they might be apart

In that small, icy compartment
she blew on fingers numb and cold
struggling, eyes blurred
finding it difficult to hold the rain-smudged page
from which his name, that one beloved name
leaped out at her to blur her eyes
to fuel her sadness and her inner rage

In that crowded compartment
static amid the autumned trees of green and gold
his stiff fingers struggled to form the words
the all-important signature
from the black ink that sluggishly flowed

In that empty compartment
the headlines barely visible in the dim evening light
the crumpled newspaper lay
proclaiming
“Hostilities have ceased
on this the eleventh moment
of the eleventh hour
of the eleventh day

(for Miss Hacker  who was the sole Teacher
at Maxey C of E School c. 1957)


We slowly shaped the slanting letters
in between the feint ruled guiding lines
until they were solidly etched upon the page
solid as the tine-worn dinner forks
we struggled to hold
in fingers chilblained red and blue with cold
the scratchy nibs smudged ink between each finger
there, where the mingled smells of chalk and ink and dust
in unholy alliance lingered
she would stop and stand quietly
beside us, behind us, 4711 Eau de Cologne
her presence betrayed
as we sat in awe of her quiet voice
‘though never afraid
merely somehow aware of
her simply being always there
inviting the chosen few to become
Ink Monitors, Milk Monitors
Monitors - that word now conjures up images
of large lizards clasping rocks in foreign lands
dishing out ink and milk
that mingling smell and
staining of our chapped dry hands
as we sat with the words
“eleven plus”  sharp in every mind
ability and perseverance
left nervously behind
would we be bound for
Secondary School  (failure)
or Grammar School (success)
no real choice
only the shattering realisation of pass or failure letters
and of disappointment in
her quiet, yet resonant, voice

There is honey in your voice
when you say my name
it falls like the soft whisper of
a summer breeze upon my ears
and seeps as liquid nectar into my heart
and surrounds and dries my tears

I feel your warmth
beside me
your breath upon my neck
is a reassurance
your hand that reaches
for mine
comforts
clasping my nightmares
as the last dregs of day leave
the skies
turning them into
dreams of safety
all through the night

I stayed beside him
all through those journeys into unfamiliar lands
of endless sun, or scrub, or endless sand
I was there

I stayed beside him
feeling his fear, smelling his fear
seeing the mingled sweat and sand
in the cracks on the skin of his hands
I was there

I stayed beside him
as the sun went down
and the light from the sky went out
I was there

I stayed beside him
when the gas came, yellow and stinking
and I crouched low, shrinking down
and I heard the bugle’s call
and the officers shout
I was there

I stayed beside him
when the voice that I loved fell silent
I was there

I stayed beside him
when those gentling hands were stilled
and the light in his warm, wise eyes went out
and his comrades at arms
put a new leather collar around my neck
and they wanted to lead me away
across that red tinged sand
but not before
I had licked his face
and his cold, still hand

the sky is a washed-out blue
the clouds are shredded whisps of
laundered white lawn
by angry or capricious fingers torn
the sun an almost amorphous round of ***** yellow soap
totally insufficient in any kind of cleansing scope
as if by weak hands unseen squeezed
between the white shreds
yet neither warmed nor pleased
as early fallen leaves rustled against cold pane
and brought in their whisper
a foreshadowing of Winter’s rain

The wild wind whips the trees
scattering seeds across
wildly waving grass
all birds have ceased their flight
reduced to huddled shapes
sheltering amid the
seed spilling branches
waiting for the unholy buffeting to pass
bins lie on their sides
fragments of ******* spilled
from interiors
dark as emptied
mouths agape
and on verges
scraps of bin liners
are shredded strips
resembling torn
black funeral crepe
and the taller trees are pinned
down into submission
by the howling breath of the wind