They met in the Square. Weather warm and sun sticky. Hannah was in her short dress and sandals. Benedict in jeans and tee shirt and black plimsolls. It was Saturday and they'd decided to give the morning matinee a miss and go elsewhere. We can go and paddle on the side of the Thames, she said. Can we? He asked. Sure we can. He wasn't sure. Is it wise? He said, what with all the crap that's put in? She looked at him. We're not to drink the water, just paddle in it. It's water, not **** pool, she said. Won't we need towels? No, our feet'll dry in the sun. She eyed him. How old are you? Twelve, he said. Not a baby, then? She said. No, he replied. We're both twelve, she said, so let's go get our feet wet. What did your mum say when you told her where you were going? I didn't, Hannah said. Why not? He said. Because she'd have said:Ye cannae gang in th' Thames. So I didn't tell her. What did you say? He asked. Said I was going to see boats on the Thames. What did she say to that? Benedict asked. Dornt faa in th' water, she said. Benedict laughed at Hannah's mocking her mother's Scottish dialect. What did you say to her? Hannah pulled a straight face, stern features. I said, Ah willnae. He laughed again. Right let's be off, she said. They walked out of the Square and up Meadow Row. Did you tell your mum where you were going? Hannah asked. Just said I was going out with you, he said. What did your mum say? Hannah asked. She said ok and be careful, he replied. They walked to the bus stop and got a bus to South Bank. The bus was crowded. They sat at the back on side seats. A plump man next to Hannah wiggled up close to her; his thigh touched hers. She felt uncomfortable. He smelt of sweat and cigarette smoke. She was glad when they got off. She stared at him and mumbled, ye mingin prat. Benedict said, what? Not you, that prat on the bus, touching me, she said. Benedict watched the bus go. You should have said, he said, we could have got him thrown off the bus. Too much hassle, she said. They walked along by the Thames, looking down at the water. Looks too high, Benedict said. Maybe later, she said. So they lay side by side on the grass by the Thames and enjoyed the sun.  Her fingers touched his. They were warm and dampish. He sensed her fingers against his. They turned and faced each other, finger still touching. Do you like me? She asked. Of course I do, he replied. She eyed him. I think of you a lot, she said. Do you? He said. She nodded. Yes, quite a bit, she said. O, right, he said, looking at her, taking in her darkish eyes and her hair in a ponytail. Have you ever kissed a girl before? She asked. He looked past her at the passing people. A man with a dog stared at them. I kissed my aunt once, he said, looking at her again. No, I meant a girl, not a relative, Hannah said. He thought, searching through his memory files. Don't think so, he said. Couldn't have been very good if you can't remember, she said. He never made a habit of kissing girls: other boys frowned on such behaviour. He had kissed a girl with one leg once at a nursing home when he was eleven. A year ago, yes, he said, I kissed a girl with one leg a year or so ago. Where did you kiss her? Hannah asked, her leg? He smiled. No,on her cheek, he replied, remembering. Why did you kiss her? Hannah asked. She said I could. She was twelve and big and had just the one leg. Hannah looked at him. Took in his quiff of hair, the hazel eyes and the Elvis smile-she'd seen a photo in a magazine of Elvis Presley and loved the smile- and the set of his jawline. Do you kiss any girl with one leg? She asked.  No, he said, just that one time. She looked at him, her fingers beginning to squeeze his. Would you kiss me? She asked. He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't entered his mind. Did you want me to? He said. Do you want to, she replied. What would your mum say? She'd say: whit ur ye kissin' fur? . He laughed. It tickled him when she said spoke her mother's dialect. He looked at her face. Where? He said. Where what? She said. Kiss you? Where shall I kiss you? He said, feeling shy all of a sudden. Where did you want to kiss me? He looked away. Crowds were passing by on the South Bank. Don't know, he said, looking back at her. She sighed. Looked at him. Squeezed his fingers tighter. I'll kiss you, then, she said. She leaned close to him and kissed his cheek. It was a short kiss. He sensed it: warm and wet. Was that it? He mused. She lay there staring at him. Well? What do you think of that? She said. He wasn't sure. It felt all right. It was ok, he said. Just ok? She said, looking at him. He nodded. She drew him closer to her and kissed his lips and pressed long and hard. He panicked briefly as if he'd not breathe again, but he relaxed as her lips became glued to his, and he closed his eyes, and felt a mild opening in himself and he breathed through his nose. As she kissed him, her lips pressing on his, she felt a warm feeling rise through her body as she'd not felt before. It felt unreal. Felt as if she'd entered another body and was a spectator in a game. She pulled away from his lisp and stared at him. How was that? Sh asked. He lay there his eyes closed as if dazed. He opened his eyes. Gosh, he breathed rather than said. She blew out and lay back on the grass. He lay back, too. What would your mum say if she saw us kissing? She smiled and said, lae heem aloyn ye dornt ken whaur he's bin. Benedict laughed and closed his eyes trying to picture Mrs Scot saying it. What does it mean? He asked laughing. Leave him alone you don't know where he's been, she said smiling. She turned and looked at him again. He turned and gazed at her. The laughter died away. How do you feel? She asked. Feel about what? He said. No, how do you feel inside? She said. He didn't know. It was new to him this kissing. He sighed. Don't know. How about you? He said. Tingly, she said in reply. Inside me. My body tingled. Is that a good thing? He asked, uncertain of these matters. I don't know, she said, looking at him. Do you want to paddle in the Thames? He asked. No, not now, she said, I want to kiss again. They lay there gazing each other. Let's go elsewhere though, she suggested. Where? He asked. St James's Park, she suggested, we can get a bus there. Ok, he said. So they walked to the bus stop and got a bus to St. James's Park. It was crowded. People everywhere: walking, sitting, lying down, running. They both sat on then grass, then after a few minutes, they lay on the grass. Hannah stared at him. He looked at her eyes. She moved forward and kissed his lips. Pressed them, breathing through her nose, closed her eyes. He closed his eyes as she closed her eyes. His lips felt hers. Warming, pressing, wettish, her tongue touching his just on the tips. He felt as if suddenly as if he were falling and then he opened his eyes and she had moved away from him. Well? She said, how was that? He sensed his lips slightly bruised, but warm and he felt unusually alive. She gazed at him. She felt opened up as if someone had unzipped her and exposed her. It was good, he said, taking hold of her hand, holding it against his cheek. She sighed, it was  good, but it felt surreal, as if it had been a dream, not real, not her kissing. It was, she said, still kissing him inside of her twelve her old head.

Market square died down this afternoon,
the day of trading over and over all too soon;
and the now the trolleys have been left out,
lights left on waiting for those customers to come again.

They'll hurry into their jumpers the traders and customers of tomorrow,
weather'll kick up and run up the coast in a rainy fuss.

Temporary clad walls that are there all year round
are dressed up from the ground every day, tied at the ear
of the frames that hang over corridor of cobbles,
scuffed with the muck from Armani plimsolls
and the heels of this week's Alexander McQueens.

*When the rain comes trading will cease and
they'll flick out their notepads to calculate this month's lease.

Need your kindness to share a kiss
as your yellow dress blows
like a deft daffodil,
your auburn pony tail
and laced plimsolls
are all summer
like a girl guide out to picnic
who needs a parasol
to shield her freckles
and those bumble bees
sharing the carrrot cake.

It was sports day
at high school

and the field and tracks
were crowded with

teachers and kids
and the sun was out

causing sweat
and heat rash

and Reynard said to you
that girl who fancies your ***

is waving to you
over by the small wood

of trees and bushes
so you looked over

and saw Christina
waving a hand at you

leaping up and down
her short gym skirt

rising and falling
as she leaped

showing off
now and then

her dark green *******
mind she don’t eat you

Reynard said
and walked off

to watch the races
as you wandered over

to where she stood
at the edge

of the small wood
don’t you look

the **** beast
in your black shorts  

she said
eyeing you over

her right hand smoothing
down your white tee shirt

are you running?
she asked

yes a short sprint
you replied

anything more than that
and I’m buggered

she looked at the field
holding her hands

in front of her
and you gazed

at her white legs
and white ankle socks

and black plimsolls
I’m in the relay race

she said
I‘ll have to watch

to see when my turn comes
then she turned to you

and said
have you been inside the wood?

you looked behind you
no not so far have you?

yes we went there
in science looking for bugs

and such
she said

maybe you could show me
you said

what?
bugs and flowers

and butterflies
you replied

she smiled at you
maybe but teachers might be watching

or other kids or prefects
and what if my brother Cedric

sees us enter
and tells my parents?

just a science tour
to see all nature’s gifts

you said
tell them that

if any see us go
and you watched her

fumble with her fingers
looking around the field

and whispered softly
no.

You walked with Janice
to Baldwin’s the Herbalist

at the corner of Elephant
and Walworth Road

she wore her blue patterned dress
and red beret

and white socks
and red sandals

and in her small purse
she had money

her gran gave her
to buy sarsaparilla

in a half pint glass
and you

in your cowboy shirt
and jeans and plimsolls

with your holster
and six shooter

in the belt
around your waist

and clutching money
your mother’d given you

for doing a few chores
Gran would never let me

go on my own
Janice said

but when I said
you were going

Gran said all right
but no sweets

they rot your teeth
I like the liquorice sticks

you can buy there
you said

they make your teeth white
or so my mum said

Janice looked at your gun
in the holster

and said
you can protect me

from outlaws with your gun
sure

you replied
she smelt of lavender

and toothpaste from tins
and she moved nearer to you

and her arm touched yours
as you walked along

here we are
she said

and opened the door of Baldwin’s
and you both went in

and went to the counter
and asked the man

for two half pints
of sarsaparilla

and when he poured them
and you each paid him

you stood by the window
with your glasses

and sipped
and looked

at the passing traffic
and people

you feeling like Wyatt Earp
in the saloon

and Janice looking out
as if she feared

outlaws would be coming
pretty soon.

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.

Plastic pistols, cowboy hats
action men, palitoy combat

Hotspur, Tiger and Hurricane
leather footballs, broken panes

Matchbox, Corgi, Airfix, Meccano
Stickle Bricks, and (only) red and white Lego

Triang scooters, Raleigh Choppers
Dunlop plimsolls, orange space-hoppers

Down the park’s obstacle course
Witches Hat, iron rocking horse  

Bumps and scrapes, grazes and cuts
rub it all better, just-get-back-up

Home before dark, in time for tea
Billy and Ian, my sisters and me

Walking,
My body weaves,
Arms hang,
Pinned to shoulders
Loose as string.
The hard walkway,
Through cracked plimsolls,
Transmits,
To creaky hips,
My material faults,
In uneven steps.

The eye
Inward stares,
And at every step:
Those fears,
That I kept at bay
As I strayed,
Claw at my walls.

Now,
I must attend
To the piteous whimpers,
The cringing whines,
And frantic scratching.

And force myself
From running,
As I would,
To escape the pleading:
The howls,
Of that inner dog,
Tied to a post.

Early summer
after school
after low tea
of bread and jam

and a glass of milk
you sat with Fay
on the roof
of the pram shed

of Banks House
and looked up
Meadow Row
watching the sun

slowly going down
on the busy horizon
she clothed
in a grey dress

with black plimsolls
and you in fading jeans
and open necked shirt
and she said

my daddy says
I’ve to learn
the Credo in Latin
by the summer holidays

or there’ll be trouble
what the heck’s the Credo?
you asked
looking at the heels

of her plimsolled feet
hitting the wall
of the pram shed
it’s the I Believe prayer

setting out the items
of our beliefs
in the Catholic Church
why Latin?

you said
noticing fading bruises
on her thighs
as the hem

of her dress moved
as she banged her heels
against the wall
because daddy said so

she said
looking
at the orangey sun
in the darkening

blue sky
I don’t know many prayers
you said
at least

not all the way through
except the ones
they teach us
at school

even then
some of the boys
put their own words in
which I couldn’t

repeat to you
she looked at you
her fair hair
adding beauty

to her pale face
and water colour blue
of eyes
best not to

she said softly
don’t your parents
insist you learn prayers?
she asked

no
you said
my old man
wouldn’t know a prayer

if it came up
and tickled his moustache
she smiled
and looked away

then after a few moments
of silence
she said
the sun looks

like a big orange
on a big blue cloth
doesn’t it?
yes

you said
looking skyward
then watched
the traffic pass by

at the end
of Meadow Row
and the bombsite outline
on the right hand side

and the shadows caused
by the lowering sun
then you lowered
your sight

to the fading bruises
on her thighs
and the watercolour blue
of her bright clear eyes.

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

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

of dampness
smelt of oranges
fresh peeled  
her usual well worn

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

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

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

open neck shirt
and grey flannel
short trousers
( no jeans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

one thing and another
and she lowered
her voice
and whispered

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just good friends
and only eight.

Fay met Baruch
by Arch Street
off of Meadow Row
he was by

the bombed out ruins
across the way
firing his catapult
at tin cans

and empty bottles
she stood at his side
hands in the pockets
of her cardigan

fair hair held
in place by a slide
not firing at the birds
are you?

she asked
looking anxious
no just cans
and bottles

he said
she seemed relieved
and stepped closer
hate to see things hurt

or killed
she said
he tucked the catapult
into the belt

of his jeans
and wiped his hands
on the blue cloth
your old man

let you out then?
he said
she looked about her
in case her father

was near at hand
to hear
my father’s off
for the day

she said
some church things
she added
good to have you here

Baruch said
he stared at her
taking in her hair
and eyes

and her mouth ajar
lips and small teeth
the patterned dress
coming to the knees

red on yellow
going to the flicks later
you want to come?
he asked

she frowned in thought
where?
Camberwell Green
he said

the picture house
is a fleapit
but the film’s good
she blinked

wiped her nose
no money
she said
Dad said to read

Mark Chapter 9
all through
before he gets home
and he will

question me
and if I don’t know it
she became silent
and looked away

Baruch caught sight
of a bruise yellowing
on her right brow
he’d not seen

until she moved
her hair by hand
to wipe her nose
when’s he back?

Baruch asked
late tonight
she said
best not go

she looked across
the bomb site
towards the coal wharf
where horse drawn wagons

came and went
or coal lorries  
along the small road
carrying their load

got time to take in
a film
he said
be back and study then

the Bible bit
she bit her lip
still got no money
she said

looking back at him
standing there
in jeans and blue shirt  
and mucked up hair

I’ve got 2/6d
that’ll do for us to go
and ride and see
and ride on back

she hesitated
looked concerned
if I don’t know St Mark 9
there’ll be hell to pay

(strapped backside
more like he thought
but didn’t say)
we can scan the pages

once we’re back
and gulp it down
and swot it up
he said

she stared
at her plimsolls
white ankle socks
the stones

and bricks
of the bomb site ground
tempted she said
ok

wanting to go
and be with him
she weighed
the balance

in her mind
pushing possible
punishment to the back
of her mind

already he was walking
towards the bus stop
across the bombsite
in casual pace

she followed
taking his hand in hers
unaware her father
from the top

of a bus
had seen
and taking note
knowing what to say

and do
she being
with that kid again
the downstairs Jew.

Lydia walked back
from the baker's shop
through the Square
carrying in her thin hands

the loaf of white bread
and half a dozen bread rolls
the 1/- change
from her mother's money

in her green dress pocket
her arms feeling
the chill of the morning air
the greying sky

the pigeons in flight
and she sensing
her stomach rumble
and her big sister

had just crept home
after a night out
(doing what
Lydia didn't know)

and her mother calling her
a *****( whatever that was)
and her father sleeping off
his beer

his snores vibrated
around the flat
and as she approached
her front door

Benedict came over
his cowboy hat
pushed back
his 6 shooter gun

tucked into the belt
of his blue jeans
been to the shop?
he asked

she stopped and nodded
early bird
catching the worm?
he added

bread not worm
she said smiling
she liked it
when he spoke to her

made her feel
kind of wanted
as if she were
of some worth

she liked it
when his hazel eyes
lit up
at the sight of her

how's your mother?
he asked
ok
she said

Benedict stood
and studied her
taking in
her plain green dress

the grey ankle socks
the black plimsolls
her skinny arms
and frame

are you allowed out later?
he asked
should think so
she said

where are you going?
she asked
thought we could catch a bus
to the West End

she frowned
where's that?
he smiled
up West

he said
you know Piccadilly
and Leicester Square
and such

she clutched
the bag of rolls
and the loaf of bread
tightly to her chest

isn't that far away?
a mere bus ride
he said
she looked doubtful

haven't money
she said
no problem
he said

I've enough for both of us
she looked
at her front door
best go in

or Mum'll wonder
where I've got to
he nodded
she moved towards the door

then stopped
and turned to him
see what they say
she said

Ok he said
look forward
to seeing you
she looked at him

that look
in his hazel eyes
that smile lingering
on his lips

like some show girl
waiting to come
on stage and perform
can I have a drink of cola

when we're out?
she asked
sure
he said

maybe ice cream too
they do that
soft oozy kind
up West

he said
her eyes lit up
and she smiled
Ok

she said
and just as she entered
the front door
he blew her

a young boy kiss
from his palm
and then turned
and rode off

across the Square
on his invisible horse
the coal black one
without saddle of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who are we kidding
when we place a bottle to our lips and
try to call it a marriage of some sort
the last thing I remember
a straw between my teeth then
your ear in its place
fast forward to me counting the steps to your door
1, 2, 3.. 6.. 14..25
I was barely 13 before I was taught love was a call to arms,
not a veritable verb
you told me it was good enough
holding it in my palm
and really I should’ve known
when every attempt at romance was nothing above a whisper
how I was your best kept secret at 15

at 19, I still unravel under the influence
my cup is empty from the nights I gave you so much it
tumbled
into the morning after but all that was left to grab at was
your hair on my pillow,
you were spontaneous like that, weren’t you?
and I,
hey, why won’t you just lighten up?
You fancied flight and I only wanted the pebbles
crushed beneath my plimsolls
telling me all I ever needed to know,
that
the smallest only get stifled more
and before I knew it
I was a crushed up beer can,
insides still wet ******* it
coursing real liquid in real time
just
so
I could live to love you
and you tell me, sobriety hurts
like I’m only beautiful when I’m a blur
oh sweetheart,
if only you knew how pretty your eyes were
before they rolled to the back of your head,
and sweetheart,
I hope you make it home tonight.

and that home,
is you retching on the floor,
on your knees because that’s where you liked me best.

I show Lydia
the toy Bowie knife
which came

with the cowboy outfit
my parents had bought
for my 9th birthday

and there's a 6 shooter
and holster
and other stuff

I say
we're standing
on the platform

at Waterloo
watching for the next
steam train

to come in
it looks quite real
she says

can I feel it?
I hand her
the toy knife

and she rubs
her finger along
the blade

looks sharp
but it's not at all
she says

handing me
back the knife
I put the knife

into the belt
of my jeans
and we look

for a train
if Hem had that
he'd throw it

at me pretending
I was his
knife throwing

assistant she informs
your brother's a ****
I say

she smiles
what's that?
I think it means

an idiot
I reply
I look at her

standing there
with her thin arms
and straight fair hair

and that always
worried stare
that off grey dress

the black plimsolls
and white socks
here comes one

Lydia says
pointing towards
the far end

of the platform
and I see the smoke
in the air

and the sound  
and the smell
that steam trains have

and we stare
as it approaches
taking in the black

steaming beauty
of it as comes
on by

drinking in
the power
as it lets off steam

huge and noisy
like a dragon
in a dream.

Janice said
she wanted to show me
how well she skipped
with her new skip rope

I watched
as her small hands
held the wooden ends
and her arms

circled like windmills
and her feet
lifted from the ground
in an odd dance

the rope going over
and under
over and under
have a go

she said
no it's OK
I said
let me show you

how good I can draw
my new gun
from my holster
I said

tapping
the toy gun
at my side
a brown hat

(an uncle's trilby)
plonked
on my head
she watched me

her red beret
on her head
the lemon dress
I liked her in

the black plimsolls
touching toes
I took out the gun
and spun it

around my finger
like I’d seen
in the Jeff Chandler films
my old man

took me to see
my other hand
spaced at my side
I put the gun back

in the holster
and on the count of
1-2-3
I drew the gun

in the blink
of her lovely blue eyes
as 1-2-3
bad cowboys

(invisible to her)
fell and died
can I have a go?
she asked

sure you can
I said
so undid the belt
and holster and gun

and handed them
to her
to put on
which she did

in clumsy fashion
all fingers and thumbs
once she was ready
(at her own

female pace)
she said
count me in
so I said ok

and counted 1-2-3
and she went
for the gun
and sent it

spinning
through the air
catching sun light
on the silvery parts

as it fell
to the ground
with a clattering
spark flying

cap banging
sound.

Storms seldom reach into this tarmac dip - but I find my chairs broken, wrong-angled and awkward, on the grass-struggle lawn.

Sun hides. The day still dawns and I watch. Copper plays over rain-dark wall, licks the plastic idyll of neighbours’ houses.  

This house (moss-tile, rust brick) sits at the base of a hill - A full stop to their pale-clad, block-paved lines of must try harder.

I don’t attempt to keep up. The drive boasts a warm rainbow of stone, a zig-zag flourish of green sprung with yellow -

A dormant hive. Project pieces. Puzzle bits strewn. My what-if imagination stung gold - Summer-soaked moments yet to fly.

Bad luck fills a brass horseshoe and the world sulks ill at ease - *****, unwelcome - between plimsolls and boots by the door.

They used to ask about the shoes. Now, as light pours over the sanctuary bell, I laugh at the ghost of their honey-glass question.

Before home time, every day
That sleepy, can't write any more
Time of day
Low sun picks out chalk dust
Suspended in air, over kids,
who only want to meander
Across the park,
For tea and Thunderbirds.

Most kids.  Not all kids. Not us kids.
We were Mr Gardener's kids
And the slowest of us perked
Eyes bright, legs crossed
At the end of the day
Warm with anticipation
Home was not pressing
On our nine year old minds

Unexpected Mr Gardener
Generous, mild and
gentle sharer of knowledge
balancing on the brink
of retirement
who, at the Christmas concert,
awed us, floored us
with soaring solo Emmanuels.

Before the bell we gathered round
He held the book aloft and cracked open our little worlds
With Beowulf
No diluted, convoluted picture story form
This was all ****** battles,
dragons, a severed arm.
A teacher transformed
Animated, passionate, Mr Gardener
Held us all in thrall

We went home through the cloakroom
Summer air heavy with the smell
of plimsolls and sour milk
Minds alive and buzzing with heroes and monsters
Chasing sword play across the park
I thought, imagine you can have all that
with just words.

It was Thursday
my beard was still growing
the dog on the corner was growling
it had just started snowing
and the wind was howling,

I was prowling through memories
in my old fashioned plimsolls,
finding diamonds in diaries I thought
were long lost.

I walked freely
every step meticulously measured
head in the clouds
feet always in the centre of my
granite paver  
if not it's unlucky, they say
I caught your smile
invading my eyes
I think I smiled
then I felt the edge
so sharp under my plimsolls
my knees buckled as I
fell over the edge
falling, falling
then the pain as you clasped me
and brought me to my feet
ouch I cried
we smiled
as we stood on the edges of my world
we shuffled to the centre
together