So,
here we
are then!
a collection of poems
by Lea Knowles
Preface
The original title for this
collection was to be ‘Mine and Yours’, the problem with this being that the
contents may be interpreted as totally autobiographical. Some are, easily
recognisable from names, places and events; others are metaphorical, anecdotal
or use a relationship as a hook to explore a broader issue or idea. So I hereby
declare that I have never been involved in domestic violence, child abuse,
tabloid journalism, terrorism, drug taking, alcohol misuse, money laundering,
prostitution, people trafficking, war mongering, illegal parking, failure to
pay library fines or any other of the ills of modern society, which is why I changed the title to
‘So, here we are then!’ –
quite safe, neutral, inoffensive, open to interpretation - and boring really!
Any characterisations,
positive or negative, that may be attributed to persons living or dead are
purely coincidental – unless you think otherwise!
Furthermore, no animals – not
even the cat - were harmed or even teased during the writing of these poems –
to the best of my knowledge - I may have sat on the odd ant I suppose!
The poems in this volume have
been extracted and collated from the span of my entire poetry-writing ‘career’
- i.e. from 1970 to the present – and
are not presented in chronological order of composition, though could have been
if I had been arsed to do so.
I would like to dedicate this
collection to my wider family, and the narrower ones, all of whom are superb,
honest, upright pillars of society – or at least aspire to be, apparently –
apart from.... no, I won’t say!
Lea Knowles
2013
Contents
Page
Bygones
6
Fishing for Words 7
Out of Control 7
Wishes (for Carrie) 7
Carrie’s Bridge 8
And I wonder (for Jake) 9
Adam 10
Charlie 10
Growing Up 11
Playtime 11
Borderland 11
Angelica 12
Bedtime 12
Dear Santa 13
Chopping Board 13
Leaving 14
Longing 14
For Leanne 14
Amy Worrall 15
Phantom 15
Restaurant 15
Footsteps 15
The Bullet 16
Madge 16
What Cats Hate 17
For Orla 18
Orla 18
Rose 19
For Our Children 20
Gaia 20
Autumn Breezes 20
Precious Days 21
Tina 21
Buzzing About 22
Roger’s Heroes 23
Pond 24
Furiously 24
Unspoken Love 25
Christmas Dinner 25
Purest Gold 26
For Emma 27
The Jug 28
Giblets 29
Metal Box 29
Fragment 30
Gardening 30
In Loving Memory 31
Fire Craft 31
Dental Work 31
Virginia Water 32
So Far Away 32
Star 32
Click 33
Stable Relationship 33
Survival 33
Lost Love 34
Whale Song 35
Burying the Past 35
Moonwaves 36
Remorse 36
It’s not Fair 37
Ghost in my Kitchen 38
Do Not Tell Me You Cannot Sleep 39
I Daren’t Look Back 39
Horizons 39
Earthquake 40
Challenger 40
Tree 40
Missing 41
Listening to Whispers 41
Roses 41
Space for Conversion 42
Stirling Knight 42
Sorrow 42
For Those We Remember 42
50 Not Out 43
Grandad’s Lament 44
Shed 44
Emotional Illiteracy 45
Glued! 45
Meeting My Father 45
Plastic Ponies 47
Shooting Stars 47
The Allotment 47
A Northern Sun 48
Alone 48
A Passing 49
Westness Brooch 49
Finally 50
After the War 50
Total Eclipse 51
Mersey 51
To be 52
Rock Ferry Pier 53
Where the River Meets the Sea 53
Arthur 54
Voices 54
Remembrance 55
On the Way Out 55
Flyways 56
Bygones
a hot water bottle
always with you
sitting on the
stile
at the edge of our
empire
beyond the churchyard on a sheet of iron
scraping down the
ice to
certain injury
running to catch the
smoke and steam thumping past
the old timber yard
clearing moss from
weathered stone
reminding the world
you were here so
happy to see me
the baby smiles and
smiles
and then pukes
-
young man
running
ignored by the
shopping crowds
in his hand a rose do you recall
that maple leaf
brooch given
with love so long
ago?
kids scraping their names
waves abhor the handwriting
and wash them away pyre
on the beach
curling smoke billows
out to sea,
farewell
to a poet hard
streets of London
desperate mother and
children
will no-one buy her flowers?
confetti clings
ten thousand tiny wishes
for love and good fortune two brothers at play
I watch them laugh
and grow
together in electric dreams
visiting the grave
nothing to trouble
them with -
just the wind in my
eyes
FISHING FOR WORDS
To catch a bubbling burbling rhythm swift and clear
meanings swimming like fish – some easily caught
attracted to the gold of the sun,
pearly eyed soon lose their gleam.
Others glint in deeper water
where the light that strikes invigorates
to inspire a dream. 2014
OUT OF CONTROL
So, you are on the way;
I accept you will be here one day
and though I feel chill
at an arrival too soon
I pray for a new sun
to replace the frosty moon,
to be part of us and shine
and say “My beams will
warm you, come what may.”
But for now I do not trust my grip -
fearing from these worthless arms you’ll slip
and love will drain away.
You may come to know some day
the pain of truly letting go,
when all seems to spin out of kilter –
hope, time and season marching slow
and I, fearing through the walls of my heart
and not through reason. 1999
WISHES (for
Carrie)
We wish you a golden dawn to each day,
meadow showers to soften your way
white clouds to sail through sunbeams,
where only gentle breezes stir your dreams.
We wish you rainbows in your sky,
the song of gardens, a lark on high,
colours bold and the scent of flowers,
ice cream castles and fairy towers.
We wish you mountains with snowy peaks,
curlews and parrots with pointy beaks,
chocolate drops on birthday cakes,
the tickly fizz that lemonade makes.
We wish you fun throughout your days
the warmth of friends, their funny ways.
We wish you kindness from those you meet
and in return with kindness greet
and share your joy, your heart, your smile
allow a friend to talk awhile,
listen with a caring ear
so share your comfort, blot up fear.
We wish you all our love always
and the peace of faith throughout your days. 1999
CARRIE’S BRIDGE
Slung over lifetime’s rough waters,
spiky rocks like alligators
hunger for your fall;
the slats and plaited threads
that bear your dreams
may creak and sway and
threaten to dash them
against some jagged wall,
but keep your bright gaze
fixed on your chosen shore,
grasp the rope, feel strength from above
and boldly go, explore -
your bridge will not give way, secure,
woven from such strands of love. 1999
AND I WONDER (for
Jake)
|
|
As I watch you quietly sleep,
kiss your cheek
and whisper
‘Jake’
you peep
and briefly
smile.
I wonder
as you
wake and life unfolds
just
what you’ll make
of
all this sound and motion,
this light we strive
to focus.
And I wonder
if you’ll be able, from the chaos and clamour
to keep your peace,
tell substance from glamour,
drink from your own cup,
shake hands with every race,
|
|
And I wonder
if you’ll rejoice
in the beauty of the sea,
the sky and earth’s wild places,
and
in so doing
return their worth.
And I wonder
about the son and the father,
the man you’ll be one day
as I watch you quietly sleep…
I pray. 2005
ADAM
|
|
They say you’ll be strong;
they say how tall you’ll be;
they say you have a mighty grip
-
to be a goalie, certainly!
Time will present its challenges
when you learn to react like a man
believe in your heart as well as your head
to be the best that you can.
But for now your enchanting smile
greets us placidly as you sleep
safe in the love of your family -
may watching angels keep. 2006
CHARLIE
|
|
Charlie’s playing on the rug -
he gives my hair a gentle tug;
From making towers with wooden bricks
my aching knees alarming clicks
wonder if I’ll walk again without the aid of sticks.
We look out on my garden
at the birds and snails and slugs
watch the cat with his furry licks,
make funny sounds, do silly tricks
mopping up where’er he sicks and hope it’s not a bug.
Recalling all the nursery rhymes
I start to feel quite smug -
songs not sung since our kids were six,
looking to the day we can read comics
munch crisps and popcorn at the flicks
go for outings on the train,
splash in puddles in the rain –
that such times will call again
to give my heart a hug.
But for now what fills me with relief
and almost makes me happy
is when I realise it’s just warm air
and not a poo-ey nappy! 2012
GROWING UP
She never wants to grow up, she says,
yet she wears her mother’s make-up
ears pierced, varnished nails
hanging round the park with other girls
wanting to try the swings;
wanting boys to look
wanting to be loved
but afraid of the scanning
that glides over you selfishly,
wanting to possess,
promising nothing in return.
She’s afraid of the girl whose beauty, ensnared,
stands in corners with boys
taunting her to go with so-and so,
driven out of her childhood by the world,
pulled to a ledge,
where she must fly or fall
and neither will calm her heart -
or mine. 1994
PLAYTIME
The sun spreads a carpet –
golden light where children play,
capturing each moment
transforming it into treasure
before it disappears. 1984
BORDERLAND
Your name betrays your origin
but not your loyalty
nor your taste for the same fermented brew,
ploughman, priest or royalty
borderland, where the entwinement of difference
should bring fertility, life renew
and give birth to hope and charity. 2010
ANGELICA
Reward : for the return of Angelica,
who many miles ago
fell down beside the car seat
to a place where pennies go,
a shadowland of lost toys
and sticky sweets and fluff,
crayons, crumbs and hair bobbles
and other assorted stuff;
a pooey gooey underworld
vacuum monster cannot reach
getting worse with every trip
to campsite, town or beach
with mud and sand and soggy tissue
so for Angelica’s sake
please help me to rescue her -
it’s a health and safety issue. 1985
BEDTIME
She says she’s afraid of spiders - even tiny ones
as they crawl alarmingly
hiding their huge fangs and claws.
She says she’s afraid of cats- their constant stare,
incisors bared by a yawn,
flick of a tail, haunched, ready to pounce.
She says she’s afraid of cracks in the ceiling -
demonic shapes that spread,
try to get you in your sleep
trap you in their black chasm and pull you in.
She wants to hear your voice
snuggle close with your arm around her,
listen to you talking, breathing
so she won’t feel scared or lonely.
But she doesn’t want to hear about the student
stabbed as he walked through the park - there are swings
in the park.
‘Don’t tell me about the bombs’ she says
‘or the children drinking in dirt’.
She wants you to tell her a story - one that doesn’t hurt
she may have heard a hundred times
but knows it’s just pretending
one which always reads the same
one with a happy ending. 1992
DEAR SANTA
Thanks for the stumps and the willow cricket bat -
they were very very thoughtful, though I never asked for
that.
Thanks for the smellies that make bubbles in the bath
but I only hoped for footsteps coming up our path.
And thanks for the DS and the playstation game
but ever since last Christmas things haven’t been the
same.
I’m grateful for the chocolate and fantastic mountain
bike
but the note I wrote stated clearly what I’d really like.
Perhaps your elves forgot or just can’t read too well
or maybe they were simply the wrong folk to tell.
So I’ll ask again in real good time and write it very
clear:
BRING MUM AND DAD TOGETHER
please,
BY THIS TIME NEXT YEAR. 2004
CHOPPING BOARD
Here is where I first shed blood
in the turbulent cause of family values,
prime witness to the cuts and scores,
the scratching, cross-hatching
slicing into grain and vein,
verbal wounds of long-forgotten blades.
I tried to jump the wire, but was caught
learning the flavour of foreign knives,
and so put to trimming the fat,
slicing and dicing onions and chives,
kneading dough for the gingerbread men
corrugated fruit scones and then
plucking the harvest - rhubarb and cherry,
blackcurrant, pear, loganberry -
gifts from a brambled wayside.
And there I was, left in vain
to work it all out with stabs in the dark
risking scars and the dark flow of pain. 2014
LEAVING
First lonely chirp of day;
a chink of bottles
as lamplight splashes and neon flashes
on the corner where nobody goes.
The motherly hum of a milk float pleads
“Don’t go!” but
tatters of
mist cling to your face, smother reply
and whisper “Go!”
So with quickening steps
your cold limbs climb away.
On glancing back you risk a smile, girl,
or is it a shudder …..
as cold, dewy fingers
drunk with the night
creep and fumble inside your collar. 1997
LONGING
How often they die so young,
beautiful and innocent, ready to be kissed
to open like a moonflower.
Longings that lie stillborn
filled with not a single night of pleasure
never to know the exquisite warmth
of a new and radiant morning. 1994
FOR LEANNE
We tried as best we could
to help you know the world.
What more could we have done, or what less?
Always remembering the popular girl,
so many fine summers ahead
unable to see that malice and treachery
are just a slip away.
As you left last night
the door to your childhood closed unseen behind you,
killed by the tab that left your adulthood stillborn
but never to poison memories we will forever share.
AMY WORRALL
(inspired by a portrait in the Walker Art Gallery)
From your first floor window
you could gaze on the bleak street below.
You loved your caged bird marvellously
but had to let it go. 2012
PHANTOM
Dark phantom
poised against the dying light
like Spiderman
jumps across my path;
to trap or to warn me
against the hazards of the night? 2012
RESTAURANT
I daren’t take my son to a restaurant
no matter how basic the venue –
he simply can’t wait for the food on his plate
and proceeds to devour the menu! 2010
FOOTSTEPS
Upstairs the little ones tremble
Trying to hide their insignificant bodies
Clutching sheets, hugging the pillow.
Those terrible sounds:
The front door slam,
The dead sound of slurred feet
In the hall, on the stair,
Footsteps leaden with the weight of beer
That shake the bookcase
Make the bedroom floorboards groan.
Wide-eyed, scrambling for a corner
Dreading the glint of the streetlight
On the bottle or the belt.
They know that kind of sound
And the message it brings
But not whose turn it is tonight.
THE BULLET
Our Billy was five today-
not that you’d care!
Still asks about his dad –
‘What was he like mum?’
‘Did he like chips too?’
Started school last week, Billy,
mums and dads at the gate
me trying to find something
to fill this chasm, shore up this smile,
mop up the grief that reminds me
Constantly, there’s only me.
He would’ve been here if it hadn’t been for you,
you and your lethal game.
‘Innocent bystander’, the police said - freak incident.
That’s as maybe, but two years on
that bullet – your
bullet - is
still travelling, still piercing hearts.
Two years on, my life still unravelling.
And I never got another chance to say
how proud, my love, you made me. 2000
MADGE
(for an ex-pupil, M.M. , Birley High School, 1974-9 )
Where have you hidden your silver crown?
Where have gone our hopes for
Virginia water in your glass?
No sweeter smile that laughed in every morning
through the concrete and the rain.
But the climate it seems has changed.
Once placid pools now frozen waves and
a sun that shines with the autumn rays
of ones whose love you do not feel
yet who await in longing
your return to warmer summer days.
WHAT CATS HATE
Well, for a start I hate the car,
especially when it farts and parts
judder and squeal – you can hear it coming from afar.
Sometimes it’s still for a sleep under the wheel
and then suddenly I wonder what I’ve done
to be stuffed inside it
taken for a ride to have my backside jabbed!
I hate the kids next door –
try to pick me up on a daily basis,
shake my paw then drop me on the floor;
they think it’s a lark and start to laugh -
but the joke’s on them
cause when it gets dark
I and my mates will crap on their path!
And I hate the hoover - strange and noisy mover
that thinks it’s so cool but
can’t make up its mind
if it’s coming or going
-
aggressive, impulsive,
-
obsessive, repulsive.
I hate living with that thing in the house -
couldn’t catch a woodlouse never mind a mouse,
makes such a fuss when it traps the tail
of an innocent puss.
And there’s that crazy spinning thing
that does my head in
and whines and screams like
a whole mad moonlight cattery
of bad dreams
shaking like a victim of assault and battery.
And it seems to have been decreed by fate
that I actually eat that sorry stuff you heap on my plate
-
comes in a can with a cat on the side
and comes with a stink I just can’t abide.
But for some reason humans all think we cats love it –
Well, as far as I’m concerned, mate,
you can shove it!
And I hate the mower - calls itself Flymo
they fire it up when I’m having a bo-bo.
Comes with a blower that ruffles fur and whiskers
and is just as much risk as
that damned hoover that lives indoors –
Well, if it doesn’t leave soon, I’ll be coming to live at
yours! 2014
FOR ORLA
From this day,
one of my kingdom of days
bathed in September light
to celebrate your birth,
a smiling sky pours her blessings.
From this day
when you look in wonder at the world,
may the world look back in wonder at you
as you bring your own light
to our prayers.
How long we will walk together
this ancient land –
bfeathe its air
Follow its binding paths,
taste sweet water
from its heather-scented hills,
I do not know
but when dark clouds roll,
believe in the truth
of what lies above and beyond them
and in such love
as you will surely come to know
from this, my kingdom of days. 2009
ORLA
A young lady I know called Orla
felt a bit low – being smaller
than all of the rest
but she did her best
on tiptoe to look a bit taller. 2014
ROSE
|
|
In our family garden
a tender flower grows
a wondrous new creation
christened simply Rose.
They say a rose by another name
wouldn’t sound as sweet
nor conjure such a pretty-petalled flower,
visual treat
whose sight and scent attracts
the nectar-seeking bees
and one far off day
will bring some poor boy to his knees.
But for now we simply rejoice
that you are here
and celebrate your birth in wine
and orange juice each year,
watching you each day passing
grow into your name
nourished by each sunbeam,
illumined by your flame.
From the delicate pinks of nursery
to the strongest blood blood red
we pray that guardian angels
will watch beside your bed
not fearing that a teenage thorn
may one day hurt or prickle
just teaching you to walk and talk,
enjoy a playful tickle
and help you when your older thoughts
get tangled in your mind,
be there for you – a comfort zone
if you’re inclined.
All this, your love and cheerfulness
your loving family knows
and that is why we are so pleased
the angels called you Rose. 2012
FOR OUR CHILDREN
So what will we make of your precious time
feed to your soil as you’re growing?
Can the good earth be enough for your soul,
riches of motherlode flowing?
Weave me some silk from your haloes of air;
in wet clay spin me your bowl;
from the woody limb carve me a yol;k
in frozen seas breathe me a hole.
Attend to the songs of the simple folk,
cast your net wide in the lake;
return with your riches like gold from the hills
but leave wisdom and peace in your wake. 1972
GAIA
Roots anchored in my earth
remind me of life’s full worth
but some hide truth in dreams of youth
with inevitable rebirth.
I come to you from the banks of time
where the river spirit flows,
from rocky crests where the eagle rests
and sun on the cloud-top glows,
lights the landscape of the soul
where Earth is as she seems,
mother trying to save her children
from killing each other’s dreams. 1973
AUTUMN BREEZES
The birds have flown.
Autumn breezes scatter leaves
that seek a place to rest
in the children’s garden
deep they lie to nourish
the sweet soil of spring. 2001
PRECIOUS DAYS
As the sun climbs a summer sky
sharing warmth, making grey clouds fly,
her smiles attract like bees to flowers
saying, “play with me for hours and hours”.
And so we will, my precious lass,
For sure as sure, these days will pass. 1986
TINA
Once upon a lifetime
he used to call me Tina;
he had a wife, she had a life -
has anybody seen her?
A qualified professional
earning my own money,
he used to buy me roses
and often called me ‘Honey’.
I used to entertain the crowds,
a prima ballerina -
I tripped the light fandango
from Rome to Argentina.
Then as the kids grew older,
purse strings getting meaner,
I’d see him watching other blokes
enjoying pastures greener.
By the time our fledglings left the nest
he’d altered in his demeanour -
evenings playing darts or pool
and me – I’m just the cleaner! 1989
BUZZING ABOUT
I’ve buzzed about for a million years
producing loads of honey
but I’m ready to quit, I’m giving up -
It’s not making any money.
I’ve been up and down these hillsides
sipping nectar from the flowers;
my wings are tired, I’m all buzzed out
from flying around for hours.
I live near woods in a big white hive -
I’ve made it really cosy;
there’s room for all my friends inside
but not everything is rosy.
This summer’s not been all that good, in fact
hard to imagine worse;
the decent stuff went long ago -
now I’m left with Patterson’s curse.
This Patterson dude must have been real mean -
all those pretty plants;
not friendly to the animals, see -
like a scorpion in your pants.
Sometimes I’m stuck on a great big truck
off on a holiday;
no-one asks where I want to go -
I fancy Blackman’s Bay!
I’m craned on board in the dead of night
just as I’m trying to sleep;
we potter along as he sings a song
then his mobile starts to bleep.
And I’m supposed to be dead chuffed
when we get to this other place -
no apologies - we’re only bees
It’s a buzzin’ big disgrace!
Then after a day a queen comes my way
I think: She’s rather tasty,
so I say with pride, ‘Shall we go inside?’
she says “ Aren’t you a little bit hasty!”
Anyway, it don’t work out –
she’s buzzin’ off some other guy.
But I can handle rebuff -
I don’t give a stuff -
so I’m flyin’ round to yours to say ‘Hi!’
ROGER’S HEROES
Roger loves a hero –
a character to emulate
from Supercar to Superstar
from underdog to the truly great.
Cowboys from the wild west –
Davy Crockett was where it’s at;
dawn till twilight every day
and in bed wore a racoon-skin hat!
Thunderbirds to Deputy Dawg,
Captain Scarlet, Four Feather Falls.
When Everton supplied heroes more -
there was Labone and Alan Ball!
Tarzan was a hero,
an Adonis who never fibs
but he knew how to swing between the trees
and never cracked his ribs!
A sort of hero was Mr Reece,
especially playing cricket,
but Rog out-ran him every time
and stumped him at the wicket!
So what drew Rog to the land of Oz –
the crashing surf, the open air?
No, t’was old Rolf Harris and his digeridoo,
his beard and bird’s nest hair.
The music scene was pumping
With Olivia, Newt and John,
Jason and Kylie were just still kids
and the Bee Gees Number 1.
The air force had its heroes too,
among them Douglas Bader
flying a lawn mower with two gammy legs -
they don’t come any harder.
John Wayne was a true grit hero –
Injuns stood no chance.
He even stopped a moving train
with the grace of Mr Prance.
But Rog was still not satisfied –
he aimed for something bolder
so got himself wed and had two kids
then went to live somewhere colder.
Some say Scott was an arsehole –
Shackleton, he was the Man.
His men proved tough when the going got rough
and shit was hitting the fan.
He rowed with his men to safety
across the stormy, icy sea
with qualities that Rog admired -
a hero certainly.
But now he’s reached this stage in life
and weighs up what he’s had,
the greatest hero of them all
has got to be our dad.
They say our heroes never die,
their music lives in the air
and although we can’t touch or see them
in our hearts we know they’re still there. 2004
POND
Remember that little pond?
You wanted to climb over its ornamental bridge
But I was agin it –
Seconds later a splash and a tidal wave
And you disappearing in it!
FURIOUSLY
Furiously, she types
Furiously controlling the shaking pen
The shaking of her memory –
Of those black days
Black on black, day on day,
The impotence of guilt
Trying to report the facts -Just the facts
Trying to slough off
The emotional shield,
And all the time the black encrusted guilt
She wears next to her skin.
Furiously she types
Wondering how to rehumanise herself
As she stands in
A theatre of disregard. 2013
UNSPOKEN LOVE
As you turned away from things I left unsaid,
the words were there inside me,
forcing their way slowly, colourless bubbles rising
that would not, could not break the surface of a smile;
stuck in an emotional syrup,
never to cause ripples, not even of pleasure,
but trapped where none could hear but my heart.
You walked away with your heavy things;
I too was weighed by baggage unwanted,
but unsloughable.
and though I waved goodbye
only the autumn sunlight in your hair noticed and smiled
back,
as you walked into your Mediterranean colours
I knew a fragment of memory,
a moment of forever was passing –
forever regretted for its impotence,
forever remembered as a moment among many
when I knew I loved you, inescapably.
You would be surprised, I think by this unspoken love
and perhaps not understand
till you find yourself alive through life in ones you
love.
Or if by sorry chance
you realise the trail you follow is not leading but
driving,
piling up time in useless heaps only to be sifted for
fragments
of life we could have shared.
And so you walk away
hidden now by leaves that rustle their goodbyes
but do not let me know your feelings.
Flying at a height of 32,000 feet;
weather at home overcast and drab,
squally showers, temperature barely 5 degrees...
which really says it all. 1999
CHRISTMAS DINNER
You said you don’t like carrots, you don’t like turkey,
and sprouts are just for proddin’.
And when I suggested you try Christmas pud
I was like something you just trod in! 2014
PUREST GOLD
Do you remember days
in a lovers haze
we strolled the hills of heather,
crossed the splashing stream
in a lazy dream
and let our love unfold.
Our summer dance
through the roads of France
w;hen our girls were growing
still hear things they said
diamonds in my head
as they played the games of old.
And can you still recall
how the wild birds call
along the sands forever
on a moon-lit night
when our love shone bright
and we kissed against the cold.
Oh those southern lands
where we felt the hands
of spirits guide our journey.
Now we’re back again
where the thorns of men
try to cling but cannot hold.
I remember why
in all the days gone by
I’ve wanted to be near you
see reflected skies
in your gentle eyes
and around you arms enfold.
So remember me
where a peaceful sea
paints the sand with ripples
and believe that I
timeless as the sky
send you love of purest gold.
Acknowledgements to Sting: ‘Fields of Gold’.
FOR EMMA
Emma likes to play with toys,
her teddies need big cuddles
then she’ll go and play outside
and splash in all the puddles.
She likes to go down to the park
and ride there on her bike
to feed the swans and pick a flower
choose the ice cream that she likes.
When Emma goes out shopping
she puts things in her trolley
like biscuits, cake and lemonade
and loads and loads of lollies.
She likes to stay at home sometimes,
watch cartoons on telly
and stuff herself with goodies
that give her a wobbly belly.
But one day soon she’ll be down town
out with dad and mum
saying “Can I have a Big Mac, dad
and a pack of chewing gum?”
Emma’s mummy loves the footy -
it’s often on the box;
she ogles the athletic men
in their nice clean shorts and socks.
Her daddy he likes football too
but his favourite team is rotten -
never on the telly much
and really, best forgotten!
So back to Emma once again.
I’ve got a small suggestion
for when you’re a little bit older
to save the oldies from indigestion:
When you grow up, be dead good,
and wash those pots and plates,
cook a meal and tidy your room -
don’t just leg it off to your mates’!
THE JUG
‘Turquoise blue! ’ she said -
a colour new to me;
turquoise – exotic, magical.
I rolled the word round in my mouth
like a marble in a turquoise jug
given me by my Nan.
Inside, black lacquered,
in a curvaceous ‘50’s way,
spout like a sparrow’s beak
about to sing,
handle curving sleekly
like a car rounding a bend
then pulled up sharply
like a duck’s bottom at the end.
On opposing sides the sets of flowers
hand-painted yellow, orange, jade.
‘Japanoiserie! ’ she said
‘Japanoiserie’, I repeated – magical, exotic;
I rolled the word round on my tongue
and swallowed.
I held and caressed it like a dove,
drank cocoa from it every night,
kept in my room on a desk near my bed,
where I shone my torch
to be sure it was still there.
Nan had entered my name in a raffle –
first thing I’d ever won;
it reminds me now of unkind words
spoken as a child, unworthy, regretted.
Much later, moving house
its lip got chipped – a missing tooth,
small white scar that never healed.
then just before she passed away
in geal-cauld highland drizzle,
she remembered.
The jug now rests on high,
away from little fingers
but with the dimming of the light
its brightness lingers
and reminds me of the way. 1998
GIBLETS
Nothing rhymes with giblets -
in my book they’re on their own
which is perfectly fitting
‘cause wherever you’re sitting
they’re repulsive and best left alone.
You cannot appreciate a giblet
unless you are off your head,
I really recoil when they’re put on to boil
but our silly dog loves them - enough said! 1974
METAL BOX
‘It’s only a metal box!’ she said
as Marina and I
parted company,
‘Something to get us from A to B!’
‘And back again!’ I added.
‘This box has been our protector
from weather and people foul,
from our worst fears through the fog of ghosts
on nights that leave your nerves exposed.
This is the box, tyreless, exhausted
having gone the extra mile,
worn to the point of breakdown,
that has driven us to higher expectations
yet cradled dreams and memories-
when Emily passed her test, eventually,
and the kids played games on
those knackering drives down south –
Wriggly Worm, Where’s Dolly, Hunt the Coin.
This is the box that warned against taking life too fast
without due care and attention to
all those niggling little faults that
drive you round the bend,
jerky hill starts on the road to
the next steep learning curve’
delivered in the clear mirror of backseat driving’.
‘So one way or another’, she laughs,
‘This box has cost us a bloody fortune!
Just as well we have a new set of keys
and a brand new warranty – let’s go for a ride’.
‘Just another box!’ I lied. 1987
FRAGMENT
Torn from a long-lost book
written in your hand - so clearly yours -
that broad turquoise nib,
the way you held the pen and
let the cursive blue flow like a rippling piano,
controlled crescendos and cadenzas of
an indelible concert
encrypted beyond sound and form
into faint echoes, tunes from your past
that have never truly ended.
No gospel nor keepsake
nor points towards salvation
rising from the page that seeks attention–
little more than words in weak threads
tied to a future that is now,
tugging me back into shades of blame
for not reflecting in the mirrors of your pain
being your consolation
when all you wanted was to scream.
And yet, as my eyes follow
retracing the whispering scroll across the page
I constantly feel and remember your love. 2008
GARDENING (for Mum)
You kept your garden beautiful
sowed many seeds with love
a harvest for the future
shared with heaven above.
Your flowers grew again this spring,
their colours bright and bold,
to captivate your memory
with light you could not hold.
But gone now is the earthly pain,
gone now are your fears,
as the sun comes out to dry the rain,
so time will dry our tears. 1995
IN LOVING MEMORY
Day, greyer than usual,
a hush in the air
stops dogs from barking
asks sparrows not to sing too loud today
and bids clouds to drift more slowly ‘cross the sky.
Bright planes, higher than usual
etch the air with visions
when the sky was aflame, a nation in pain
and you but a girl but for today
a missing heartbeat between my present and past.
In the torpor of the afternoon
a gull, caller from a distant sea,
revives the day;
I recall your smile clear as the sun
through the classroom door lighting my way. 2005
FIRE CRAFT
Early Sunday morning
before the matins bell
gently blowing the glowing twig
to set the camp fire going
warm against the autumn chill.
Nestling the blackened pan among the embers
the spit and sizzle of sausages and eggs
the curling lips of bacon
home-smoked, garnished with motes of ash -
Each Sunday, the best we’d ever had
as we sat on logs and breakfasted,
my brothers, mum and dad.
2006
DENTAL WORK
(we apologise for any inconvenience this may cause!)
I imagine myself elsewhere – anywhere –
Kakadu or Kathmandu, Timbouctou or Xanadu,
a parallel universe – but not too parallel;
an alter existence to dispatch the mind
like a radio wave or an email to some other sphere
instead of being soldered at needle point
drilled to the core as he bores this raw nerve
latent with pain. 1990
VIRGINIA WATER
From dewy pools in summer haze
and poppies red in leafy ways
the winter birds returning to Virginia Water.
A name that sings from out of wood
the mellow buds of nature’s food
departing swans are calling from Virginia Water.
And with the fading rays of day
chilly fingers come to play
across the tempting glow that bathes Virginia Water.
As winter shadows deepen quick
an icy grey lies cold and thick
across the frosted smile that splits Virginia Water.
Through colder years forever long
frozen tears form frozen ponds
beneath, her lonely sobbing song - Virginia Water. 1979
SO FAR AWAY
And so a summer sun
sinks on another day
silently burning while
casting her gold across the bay.
But she hears not the curlew
nor sees the wavelets play
for her eyes are with her heart
a thousand miles away. 2004
STAR
I long for our tomorrows
no longer sharing
the moon from afar.
You defrost my spirit
and shine so strong in my sky -
you must have swallowed a star. 2004
CLICK
I hold your sepia photograph
and look into your eyes –
Click!
You were about to call :
‘Get on with it – I haven’t got all day!’
And then you would have laughed
and I would have smiled.
Click!
I would have asked about your dreams and fears
but time got in the way
and now I hold your photograph
so your life won’t slip away –
Click! 2005
STABLE RELATIONSHIP
I doubt there’s owt more gratifyin’
than pickin’ ‘ooves and muckin’out
but it’s the adrenalin blast that’s satisfyin’ -
that’s what it’s all about. 2002
GLASS MOUNTAIN
Though light as a shadow
she is trying to climb a mountain of glass
cuts and bleeds too easily
lacerations to her hands
her knees
scars plain to see
scars to her heart
but she presses on
even with her child
lightening the load
by denying herself
her shadow cries out
echoes from the valleys
to surrounding peaks
back to her real self
but she can’t afford to hear
the plainest truths
while there’s a mountain,
a mountain of glass still to be climbed. 2003
LOST LOVE
She says she’s getting old.
When she combs her hair in the mirror
she looks for grey to pull
but even make-up can’t hide
wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.
The mirror won’t lie -
tells her the best years are memories.
You can’t possibly understand
the despair when a woman realises
there’s no-one to love her –
the loneliness and fear
the fear of loneliness.
- No, don’t say
anything -
the urgent need to pack the days
with movement and people and sound
because the nights are so hard to take.
Do you understand?
How can you?
How can you know how it feels
to need somebody so much?
Yet she cannot bear to be looked at close up,
for him to see the signs encroaching.
She knows men –
their honeyed words -
until they have been satisfied
and then you’re history,
But she has her needs too.
- No, don’t say ‘thanks’ like that!
Don’t make excuses just to make your escape easier,
Don’t say anything,
just listen!
She’s not the sort of woman who clings -
she could find other men.
She’s not one to tie you down, hold you back.
She can look after herself.
Go if you want to,
but whoever you find
may want to attach herself to you.
Would another care for you
as she has done all these years?
- I said, don’t say anything.
I don’t want to hear excuses for your weakness.
Don’t have any illusions you are young and strong –
Virile? – Don’t make me laugh!
Soon you’ll be old too
then you‘ll know how I feel.
WHALE SONG
If I was a killer whale
I’d be eating lots of krill
I suppose it’d be really good for them
but for me it’s no great thrill.
My mum says don’t eat junk food
cause it makes your skin look pasty
but a burger, fries and onion rings
are very very tasty. 1994
BURYING THE PAST
You don’t want flat apologies.
To be the little girl you never knew
was all you wanted with
someone around to protect you,
carry you through the storms and stresses of your story.
It should have been me
to help you bury the dead
but I didn’t know how,
too much noise in my head.
And now you revisit every gravestone
disinterring the same old questions,
expecting a concealment of lies
prodding old fears back to life
with a stab from your eyes.
Let go of the past
and if that means letting go of me
and that leaves you peaceful,
your spirit free,
let it be - my love can last. 2005
MOONWAVES
The mellow moon stares into my room;
I gaze back as she tries to kiss my eyes
and picture yours, shining
dissolving my fears
beneath your starry skies.
Moonwaves across a tideless sea
that cool your breast
caress your thighs
soothe the soul and set it free.
And I wonder if you too
robbed of sleep
are gazing up to me,
longing for night to return
when moonwaves once
more
will reunite our dreams. 2003
REMORSE
You ask me how I’m feeling
but I want to keep my sorrow to myself –
I will not let it cleanse me of
all the grime I have accumulated
during the demolition of my life.
The pain in your eyes shows me
the chaos wreaked in your heart
that I will never forgive.
How to look in those eyes for whom
I was an anchor, now whose lives I’ve changed.
Losing respect is like losing an eye –
you must navigate your way
according to a new set of rules
where you will never again grasp
the whole landscape before you.
A netherworld has opened.
I need to light a candle to show a way out.
No need for you to follow,
no longer any reason for you to care -
just tell the world to let me be. 2004
IT’S NOT FAIR
I know you’re going to blame me
but it simply isn’t fair.
How could it have been my fault –
I wasn’t even there!
Not my fault that granny tripped -
a trainer on the stair,
or she forgot to turn the bath taps off
you think that I don’t care
that granny’s now in hospital,
they’ve put her legs in traction
when she only had a headache and now
she’s threatening legal action.
And don’t blame me there’s no hot water
left to wash the pots –
I was going to turn the taps off
when I noticed all these spots
crawling up my arms and legs -
it’s quite a nasty rash
which is why I borrowed your handbag, mum –
I needed lots of cash
to buy this range of creams and find
a useful antidote
and that’s why I was late last night –
I was going to write a note.
But then I had this phone call
from some friends of mine from school
inviting me to a party
which you’ll agree is pretty cool.
So I’ m afraid I didn’t eat my tea –
I had to get a shower
then I ran to catch the bus
‘cause there’s only one an hour.
I know the bathroom’s rather damp
and the towels are sort of soggy –
I was going to mop it up today
but am feeling rather groggy –
not that I had a lot to drink –
just a shandy nothing more;
Oh! I forgot, there is a spot
of sick behind the kitchen door.
’Not mine!’ I said – it’s the cat’s –
mine’s in the waste paper bin.
I supposed that he’d been out all night
so I had to let him in.
It really was quite wet outside
so he slept in the baby’s cot.
He’s moulting fairly badly now
Oh, and the Hoover’s blocked – a lot!
My headache’s come back really bad
but I can truly say I’ve tried.
The cot sheet smells a bit, I know
but it’s very nearly dried.
I can tell you’re not amused by this
so I’ll get everything off my chest;
Why not pour yourselves a drink
before I tell the rest!
Well I told her not to rip the mat
or the lounge room curtains shred
and it seemed she tried to listen
‘cause she’s clawed the door instead.
I guess you’re not feeling good just now
so until you’re feeling better
I’m visiting gran in hospital
which is the reason for this letter.
But it really isn’t all my fault –
It really isn’t fair!
And wouldn’t have happened at all
If you were home when I was there!
GHOST IN MY KITCHEN
Woke up with a thirst
in the middle of the night
crept down for a drink -
got an awful fright
for there in the kitchen
I swear there was a ghost
looking for the marmalade –
he’d made himself some toast. 1981
DO NOT TELL ME YOU CANNOT SLEEP
Do not tell me you cannot sleep
and why such secrets you must keep
beneath the carpet where I swept
before you climbed to bed and wept.
I know the signs that love confuses
I know the signs - I’ve felt the bruises. 1998
I DAREN’T LOOK BACK
We’ve been here before, you and I
fearfully standing, nervously waiting
your glorious ship to sail the next tide.
The pride this father feels
should swell your sails,
send you on your way
but resentment of uncompromising miles
echoes things I should have said
and done -
too often robbed by the flight of time
but which now should make it easier
to say what’s in my heart
but I daren’t look back. 2002
HORIZONS
Your face lingers like perfume
Your voice a silent echo;
I breathe your air
Play your songs
Hoping our future lies
Not in raking bad dreams
With stabbing backward glances
Nor in afterthought
But with a view of a softer horizon.
EARTHQUAKE
Dare I trust my feet to tread
this twisted metal
this shattered pile
and not to crush your sacred air?
Dare I scrabble and claw
at the rubble of my world
as if yearning to decipher the epitaph
on my grave?
I pray I will not sweep a second
of deadly sand into your eyes,
stopping your mouth uttering a sound
in answer to my frantic call.
A shout pierces my fears
that my hope has been buried alive.
My heart beats wildly,
too loudly as I peer through the crowd
at the dust encrusted face with no mouth.
Though your eyes be filled with grit
I recognise your voiceless cough as second by second
air flows back
life pours in
and strong arms lift you gently
from your grave
reborn into joyous new light
I cry ‘She lives, she lives!’ 2009
CHALLENGER
Starwards you rose on a pillar of fire
bearing our hopes and dreams for tomorrow,
then earthwards fell back in a shower of pain
drenching a nation in anguish and sorrow. 1986
TREE
The leaves are slowly turning
still fruit upon the tree
just does what nature tells it to
so it’ll outlive you and me. 1986
MISSING
A sword from a frayed rope hangs,
casts the chill shadow of fear.
Stomach wrenched by inaction,
hungry for news, a morsel of hope
to sustain through the darkest hours.
Pavements freeze by heartless moonlight
and brittle grass is crushed.
Sometime near the dawn a doorbell rings
and a heart leaps. 1995
LISTENING TO WHISPERS
I’ve been listening to whispers
from many years ago
only now come to understand
what you have been saying,
like a dream remembered
when reality becomes its mirror.
And so my thoughts have become clearer -
like water draining from an upturned bell
I hear a clear voice calling to be embraced
to be allowed to lead me to happiness
unconditioned by trivia
knowing what it is that guides us
to find for ourselves
the watermark of our li 2010
ROSES
Roses bloom from fond imaginings
in oddly-angled light,
shed perspective on the past
and nurture a vision of what is yet to be.
You are consolation
for errors of my past
grown from secret mysteries
maintained in stormy weather –
a rose so firmly planted
will send up shoots forever. 2001
SPACE FOR CONVERSION
My house echoes
in lofty ceilings and spacious halls.
Dark corners entice the sunbeams
and swallow them whole.
Nobody really lives here -
merely occupies its spaces,
calling for changes in design and plan.
Time is not important
so why can I not convert this house
Into a home? 1999
STIRLING KNIGHT
As I gazed at your reconstructed face
it seemed I could have known you
spoken to you of oppressions and woes
frailties and joys,
not hiding the father and the son
behind a wall of chain mail,
just the husband you might have been.
But what have we but your bones
lifted from foreign soil
bearing conflicts of your own
as you rode off to war? 2003
SORROW
There is no pack deep enough to fit a soldier’s tears,
no pillow soft enough to absorb a lover’s fears,
no heart strong enough to bear a mother’s sorrow 2011
FOR THOSE WE REMEMBER
Some weave music and light -
their song alive in the air;
it’s not death we feel with their passing
for in spirit we know they’re still there.
Photographs help to remind us
the voice of their laughter still clear,
song to be heard in the sweet calm of night
for in spirit we know they’re still near.
1993
50 NOT OUT
No one would guess you are fifty this year –
not over the hill or
clad in old fashioned gear,
not counting the days till your bus pass comes through,
nor worrying unduly
when the gas bill is due.
Not dreading the day when, your teeth in a glass,
you’re just watching telly
sat on your ass!
Not crocheting jock straps or darning old socks,
not dissing the youngsters
on “Top of the Pops.”
Not wondering whether Bruce Forsyth is dead -
not been heard of for years
– or was it
something you’d read?
Not fearful concerning your memory loss,
nor caring about targets
sucking up to your boss.
No thoughts of a bungalow somewhere out there
for when you’re less mobile
and can’t manage stairs.
Not even considering when you can drive no more,
lost your direction
and your eyesight is poor.
Starting to grey – but you’ve still got a headful
and nobody I’ve heard
says your dandruff is dreadful.
You ain’t got that odour that old people get
when incontinence means
that their carpets are wet.
No, you’ve found and you’ve earned a new lease of life
you are honed to perfection,
sharp as a knife.
You are fitness personified, sprightly and nifty -
walking proof if it’s needed,
that life starts at 50.
It’s hard to believe you’ve been around all these years
Still, all of us who love you
Would just like to say
“Cheers!” 2004
GRANDAD’S LAMENT
With my grandson on the rug
always gives my heart a hug.
Aching knees with alarming clicks -
will I walk again without two sticks?
Hello to the cat with his furry licks,
making funny sounds, doing silly tricks,
Blowing cobwebs from the nursery rhymes
I learned in distant bygone times.
Mopping up where’er he sicks,
mending toys that dad can’t fix.
Splashing puddles in the rain,
a day at the seaside on the train.
But soon I’ll fear with whom you mix
who’d steal your soul to get their fix,
stone fire-bobbies with bottles and bricks,
smash car windscreens just for kicks -
You gonna become one of those pricks -
just another teenage thug? 2005
SHED
In your shed alone
is this where you went to atone?
What ran through your mind
as you forged and welded,
milled and drilled your rods of steel–
a young girl, perhaps,
almost a woman
once your daughter?
Or blank all behind your iron mask?
You know you lost her in the end.
Today I buried deep your rusted lathe –
heavy and awkward as a memory.
Wild flowers grow there now
and birds feed from a protruding wheel
that refused to die – I wanted it that way -
memorial to your endeavour and generosity,
except to those who once loved you.
You should have lived over the water -
that is where your heart lay,
then as a child she’d have been safe and free –
though I’d never have met and loved her. 2007
EMOTIONAL ILLITERACY
Children glued to a screen
as if it holds the secrets of tomorrow -
a breathing space that helps control the pace,
to know where they are
gut not what they see and learn or could become.
The magic screen shares their breakfast
shapes their weekend waking -
a view of the world outside but
not to be touched, assessed.
So when they act outrageously
dwarfism of emotion rises -
from the starvation of dedicated time. 1997
GLUED!
If every second were an hour, it would give us breathing
space;
If every mile were a metre it would help run the human
race.
If every city were a garden, we’d know exactly where they
are;
If every beach were a sand pit we could relax and watch
from afar.
If every meal were a mouthful, there would be much more
to scoff
and we’d stand a chance of sitting at a table and
switching the TV off! 1994
MEETING MY FATHER
Shining like a badge, hair slicked down
I waved goodbye – again,
watching her, watching her turn,
watching her turn to go,
still waving my bus pulled away
heart racing with the engine
passing familiar places
unfamiliar window faces
down to the smoke-stacked ferry.
Finding the coins in my pocket,
counting them out for a ticket - no, a single ticket:
‘A single child ticket to Liverpool please’, I chanted,
as though the ferry went anywhere else
as if I were not a child.
Following the stomp and rush of feet
down the slope of the tide
to the clanking gangway,
I was in big shoes
in my own head of space
choosing top deck
climbing for the seat I always shared with mum,
watching the gulls, watching the gulls wheel away
wheel away over choppy water;
watching the foaming wave crests rise
as the ferry ploughed across the Mersey,
watching the old shore line shrink and fade
all the while the new shore rising.
Too soon I must judge the moment to descend,
to wait with the briefcases and brollies
the suits and cycle clips beside the sliding rail.
Which side of the ferry is it? - As if it mattered.
Watching the men with Popeye arms
hauling the creaking ropes like pythons
bracing the boat like Hercules against the ebbing tide;
then following the same feet once more
across the clanging planks manacled to the shore.
I knew the way, to the great grey office like a cathedral
those staring oblong windows, the revolving door
the great echoing hall and vaulted ceiling
opulent smell of polished brass and mahogany,
ink blotters and business talk
after-shave and lipstick smiles.
‘Looking for your dad, young man?’ they asked,
‘He’s over there!’
And so he was,
Immaculate as at 8am when he said
‘See you later, son!’ like a secret shared.
I still meet my father
in those familiar places
shared when I was young
when he put an arm around the shoulder
rarely angry - except over wasted food.
Long summers of garden fun,
of spades and earth and blackcurrant bushes,
the sap of poplar in the tree house,
tea and biscuits for the workers – and me!
I will take these memories with me
to share when I recall him from rest
and ask again, though mature in years,
for reassurance, approval
or forgiveness for what I’ve done
for matching up, or not,
as a father, as a son. 2007
PLASTIC PONIES
She is in the graveyard
playing with stones and ribbons
picking up leaves and conker shells
dancing plastic ponies
through the sun-dappled flowers.
Death should be for old people. 2011
SHOOTING STARS
It’s what they do -
in the cold dark hours before dawn:
fabricate stories to discredit
to shame, embarrass, to lie.
Flames are fanned, fuses lit,
words and images fired at the heavens
aiming for a star -
above us, not so far -
and watch as it falls and dies. 2005
THE ALLOTMENT
A silver plane unzips the sky
I listen to the lark as it sings to heaven
but it seems that
grandad’s not watching, not listening,
wheeling ancient tools from his ancient shed
to gather in his harvest,
clipping and pruning the fruity stems
leaving just a few when ripe
for blotting the children’s lips.
A plane ploughs a lonely furrow
seeking clouds in which to hide;
pea pods pop and bee buzz snores
as he potters in the sun
turning the crotting heap Into earth
to bear riches he may never see.
Evening gathers, an ice cream van
jingle-jangling its familiar tune
that soon fades while
granddad ambles homewards
at the end of his day. 1984
NORTHERN SUN
(in memory of Aunty Pat)
You have been for many our northern sun
dismissive of your radiant power
to reach the outer limits of your solar system
wherever they are
just by being
and we knowing you are there.
A lesser northern sun shines a little colder today
harder to see the landscape you loved
through the mist and drizzle
until we readjust our focus
and think not of loss
but the essence of a love
that still shines -
we need only deeply remember
and smile. 2013
ALONE
The sun has bowed her head for you
so let stars light your way.
Birds have flown to let your spirit
rise to heaven elated.
Trees that shed their autumn leaves
reveal the garden you created.
Now, the tired year almost done,
you are freed to go
and watch me as I try to fill
a dad-shaped hole, alone.
My thoughts are with my brothers
far across this darkened sky.
Letterbox silent whilst dead leaves fly -
only the wind knows why. 2003
A PASSING
Bright January sun.
On this cold still day
tombstones mark time like sundials.
Is that the same pigeon
I used to hear, that greets my return
with that taunting football chant –
United – united!?
The paint has worn away,
marble chipped plaque
dislodged from its bed.
Last of your generation,
your sister,
was this day laid to rest,
her voice still in my head
with the slanting rays of morning
telling me all will be well.
The sun will grow stronger and
climb into blue sky
from this day of reflection
when I claim a thin slice of time
just for me. 2012
WESTNESS BROOCH
A heavy shawl clasps weary shoulders,
shield to the whistling wind,
hissing among the grass and thistle.
You offer your face
to the furnace of the setting sun:
your ebbing life
in return for that of your new-born.
But as she sinks beneath the blood red wave
she takes you both
and time lays you to rest together,
here in your land, in your hillside grave.
FINALLY
To go alone into the dark was hard -
hard as singing for the dawn,
tracing your finger in the dust
while trapped in nightfears,
remembering nothing but
a promise once made
to leave your life an open book.
Now the pages flutter in the breeze
your spirit left behind,
your thoughts carried on,
treasured by those who love you still.
A trumpet sounds your arrival.
You wait for the morning light with a smile.
To become dust was to wind us up,
set us in motion
towards the light and dust of our own lives.
We lost you that night,
a farewell never witnessed,
still counting in regrets the cost of your going.
Who now to turn to
when about to dive in shallow water?
But your greatness was your nature to let us decide
to play within the rules –
and occasionally stretch them;
our sounding board, feasibility analyst
our spirit guide
perhaps despairing of this world
but unafraid to step beyond. 2003
AFTER THE WAR
After the war I’ll love you,
I’ll love you after the war
when silence casts a rainbow
on our cottage by the shore.
And there we’ll plant the garden
that we couldn’t sow before
and tend and train and watch it grow
and know what love is for.
After the war I’ll love you,
I’ll love you after the war. 1997
TOTAL ECLIPSE
In airless silence
pulled by some cosmic force
along some mysterious ley-line
moving inexorably
according to ancient prediction
your unreachable crazy diamond
eclipsing even the contrary winds
of blind pagan wonder
that lie waiting in the wings.
MERSEY
A scholar and a gentleman
once led a boy to the iron-clad shore
past cavernous domes of smoke and fire where
steam-wreathed beasts snorted and hissed,
Into a wind-whipped hall where
for threepence a bag
roasted chestnuts could be had
from the toothless man with leather-skinned smile.
Proudly showing tickets to the peak-capped man
then down down the rivetted ramp he ran
out onto the floating stage
that reeled and rocked to every wave.
A gallery of flustered gulls wheeled out
and swirled over the chilly choppy water
while he, safe in the lee of that great black coat
found cavernous pockets to explore.
Remembered tales of ocean storms
and cattle sheds now silent blackened tombs
where gore-filled gutters met
the slopping, gulping swell that
gagged and glugged under every arch and stanchion.
The priory tower,
sStubby black pencil pointing to God,
mocked by a spiky thicket of shipyard cranes
that fed the clamouring, hammering nests
where ships of war were born and grew,
great ships that slipped and dragged umbilical chains
Into the river’s embrace –
Alabama, Great Eastern, Ark Royal –
great ships that loomed over dingy drizzled streets
where grit caught the throat
of crowds cheering beneath the camel’s sign,
images on a bedroom wall.
Cold wind like a tide licks his toes
rising to meet his wind-chapped knees.
They spied out together the gutsy red funnel
fighting the tide along aa arc of the sea
nosing aside the wavelets
into gushes of
salty foam,
smoothing the swell
as she sweeps towards the shore like a queen.
He strains to read the name –
Mountwood, Overchurch or Woodchurch –
wild horse to be restrained by ropes that groan
and twist against the power of the moon.
Sweatered Woodbine men with Popeye arms
seduced by the sea draw down on
the clanking gangway chains
as two hundred feet close in to fill a void,
a surge released across the spumy, broiling gap
that could swallow a small boy whole.
Hold tight to the shiny rail
scamper up to the top deck, collar to the wind;
funnel proud against the racing cloud.
Soon the shore would recede
turning blurry
then to a streak of blue-grey
as attention shifts
closer with each throbbing pulse and slap of spray
to those proud and mighty birds
that first pecked my heart all those years ago
and carried it away. 2008
TO BE
To be or not to be - that is the matrix:
the dots and dashes
yes or no
the binary codes
the STOP and GO
the password test
the ebb and flow
that shapes our destiny
out of steel or snow. 2005
ROCK FERRY PIER
A confusion of struts and spars
she waits as the rising tide slaps her feet,
the salt spray to whip her face,
awaits the return of her men too long at sea.
The city sloughs its claggy skin
as with failing strength
forgotten, barbed and twisted,
she fights to keep the dogs at bay.
The returning tide once more empty
creeps up her thighs;
she cranes her neck and sighs. 2005
WHERE THE RIVER MEETS THE SEA
I am drawn to this place
where the river meets the sea
the mingling of waters stirs memories
of my dad and me.
Tides of opinion ran strong
through channels and gullies
out to the islands
and back to the sea wall -
the ebb and flow of reality
certainty
when we don’t know it all
or how far we can go.
‘This place’ is the expanse of sand that separates
Hilbre Island from Wirral’s west coast. As boys we were warned about the swift
current in the gullies and the dangers of the incoming tide.
ARTHUR
Yes, I knew him – sort of,
didn’t know his name, of course -
been coming here for years.
I was saying only yesterday
he hadn’t been in for a while –
lived alone – wife died some years back,
lovely woman.
One of our regulars, I’d say –
always paid with small change
as if he’d raided his piggy bank
or been saving up for ages;
friendly chap – always asked how I was,
told me all about his adventures in Africa –
had us laughing, he did;
interesting fellow – kind heart.
No time for Thatcher, though – or cats
or the monarchy come to that.
Got the impression he loved his music –
always humming – a trumpet comes to mind
for some reason – did he play? No?
But there was a kind of sadness in him –
I thought so anyway.
Still, you never can tell, can you?
No, I’ll not make a donation, thank you –
but we’ll miss him. 2004
VOICES
Voices in our memory
sometimes speak to us in dreams;
sometimes deep in thought
recall a face
and in our mind hear them,
soft, like distant music
almost singing their blessings
before fading with the light. 2003
REMEMBRANCE
Reading inscriptions
cold rising through my shoes
yet warm inside - I think I felt
the softest tap on my shoulder. 2010
ON THE WAY OUT
I feel my senses weakening.
Am I on the way out? I wonder
What will be the last thing I see,
the last sound I hear?
A choir of angels? I think not;
a cheer on Match of the Day?
Perhaps a favourite CD, a theme tune on TV
or a car getting out of my way – or not?
Or will it be your loving voice
Perhaps a bleeping monitor
On a bleeping txt machine,
asking if my phone’s switched on
and if my Y-fronts are clean? 2009
JUST THE WAY IT IS
‘I just don’t like moslems’, she said, too loud
not thinking how that made me feel,
‘That’s just the way it is;
and gays make my skin crawl
and as for Jews and blacks –
I feel nothing at all
That’s just the way it is’.
I took, to my own disgust,
too long to construct my reply
but as she left the train I gave her a look,
as I stood at her shoulder daring myself
to convey my views
Well she demonstrated the shortness of her fuse,
Came instantly to the boil
And gave my head a slap –
That’s just the way it is!
FLYWAYS
Older than the oldest nation
transcending the wiles and guile of men
from the ends of the earth returning
to the same small place
a calming reminder
of a more fundamental order of being
mysterious skills to overcome
the vastnesses of ocean and air,
innate determination that turns
the individual into something greater
for the betterment of the species
whose wisdom may persist
well beyond our own.
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