You might yet win the day…
I learned long ago to never deeply
trust the advances made
by the English men
in white and the often cried for
perfect conditions in which to slay
the oldest foe,
yet somehow it has to be said
it’s looking very unlikely
that the front foot is about to come
off the Baggy Green Coat of Arms
wearing Kangeroo and the misinformed
Captain Emu, certainly not
in any way that suggest a quality
of Mercy, not today…
I am not surprised that many of us
survived the way that Shakeamaker
dealt with us,
I am astonished
that we did so without looking the maniac
in the eye and resisting all temptation
to punch him in the stomach
with our tiny eight year old hands
and screaming with our lungs
fit to burst, our lungs still blaring
as if mimicking the sirens
that disclosed the approach of the bombs
that rained down and the aftermath
in which we played in as children;
The day I found that ship wrecked
pound note, the eye of the Queen
giving me a warning glance or the drifting
smile of a woman I will never meet,
like the furtive teasing of a model
stripped down to the waist that adorned
the tossed away magazines and that got caught
in the branches of the Willow trees
that lined sentry still on display
on the banks of the River Rae,
on the dusty pavement
on the bridge
that separates Moor Green Lane
and Dad’s Lane…
There was almost no better day
than that in which I told the old sailor,
some called traitor
to the flag, some called much worse,
and that’s not for me to remark upon,
to get the fuck out of my pub,
his brand of high seas, glassy eyed leering debate
was not wanted in amongst the beer
and the stains in which he passed his greasy
fingers between the glasses ready to be cleaned,
washed and scrubbed as he waited with
a vile lop sided grin for me to shake
It may as well have been a mountain
that yawned and gaped down
at the human insect, the bravado of its species
missing from its frame
and the slight quivering in its teenage body
as the crevice seemed to melt before his eyes.
The rock face, one hundred
dramatic feet high,
even a thousand surely at a pinch
heard the gentle tapping and prayer like
call whispering in the bright
Welsh light, God, don’t look down,
said with same impassioned plea
of the atheist who sits tied
The first memory I retain,
not the ones handed down to me in black and white,
of going missing as my mother and nan
were shopping in Abingdon
and after going spare and wondering
how they were going to break the news
to my father, only to find me
giggling away to myself in the coal shed
that joined the house, having apparently walked
home alone…
…the memory I have that still hurts in my mind,
that has seared so much into the very fabric
War is in the air but for now the year is content
to stretch out is tentacles
and feel the Northern sun warm the soul
and the days to become ones of bliss,
of harvesting the rewards
of bounty and the food
that will sustain the people under
Weodmonath’s care.
The gladiolus bloom everywhere
she looks and her charm, tempered by
anger of Solmanath’s revenge like fury
on her previous troubled psyche, is still…
Deep in the heart of her bosom though
In black and white
she let the steam from her coffee
rise above the page boy haircut,
dance for the shortest
time around her eyes,
deep, beautiful, the sparkling seduction
of a desert song at dusk
and let the sigh of ages push
the coffee to its farthest shore
and the small bubbles of indifference
pass in their wake
like small tug boats caught in an
ocean storm.
I see her in monochrome,
the shadow of the day
falling over her face, the small wisps of hair
Unlike Robert the Bruce,
I feel no sense of accomplishment when watching the industry
of the spider as it spins its fine silken dance at the bottom
edge of my library window.
I sit there watching it recreate the try
and try again routine in the vain hope of catching the elusive
as each morning I brush away the web
but never seeing the many fold truth of its endeavours.
I am not inspired by its work,
quite the opposite, for I feel it puts me to shame
I can feel the beat of a what could be a great dance move begin
as the vibrations start
and despite what the Beach Boys proclaimed in
they are not good,
in fact for the Time they nestle in my bones,
and spread out across the landscape,
the battle ground with flags and basecamps
bombarding my body,
the juddering, static charge of small tactical grenades
going off deep inside me but with the added,
sheer galling bonus of that it only affects those
who see me weeping on the bed,