His history is bullet-pointed on laminated paper and pinned to his bedroom door. I never knew, after the war, he was a goalkeeper for Somebody United, winning trophies and medals. There’s nothing to suggest this amongst his sparse belongings on his small desk; a fading photograph, some medication and wet-wipes, and a half-empty jar of Everton Mints. We sit on his bed and stare into space, and I notice he has goalkeepers’ hands, huge and agitated, as he runs them along the fraying fabric of his trousers. I wonder what game he is dreaming of. How would I know? I wasn’t around often enough to be part of his fading memories.
Epitaph
Back to the shoreline, you stroked
with reverent fingers, weathered
wet and cold between the eyes
My sisters came and picked my bones
Caused salty scratches to the skin
A public nakedness for all to see
Soon forgotten as the earth passed
Razored
Above Kite Hill, you searched for the right breeze.
I waited, my manjha ready to cut.
Below, an assembly clapped and cheered
As a million eyes were averted
By sordid headlines and Sunday lattes.
Beggar’s Barm
Two words for rain unveiled a season in rural life.
Juno revealed she was married, where was her ring?
On a blashy day, she showed her face, hid froth
Collected from runny streams in summer showers.
Month by month another piece was exposed.
Some parts left obscured by the sun,
Others turned back into their own shadow.
I would love to be the girl she has become.
Happy 2022
Image: Courtesy of Canva Pro
Geezer
He had the gift of the gab, spoke
Anthologies of pubs and poetry
Beware of his tales and promises
Sooner or later he will let you down
Follow you with an unsettling silence
Freeze you in your own Winter
An Act of Living
lips like cherry blossom
with a beachcomber smile
her weather-worn hands
scratched and scraped
through seaweed and shingle
for a few cobbles of coal
when her back could bend no more
the Solway Firth sang her home
a morning’s graft exchanged
for an hour in the warmth
London
The staggering genius of ordinary lives
Not a thorn between them
You run to catch up with the sun
But she is sinking as she swings
To and fro, on a piece of frayed rope
Until she is lost, in a relative way
You are older, older than wishing time away
Along with all her endearments, frittering
And wasting hours in an offhand style
Collapsed on a wooden bench
We took a second to search for nostalgia
Taking more than a fallen age to come
A name is a name, why tinker with it
Music Credit: Monolog Rockstars – The Bad Wake
Spitfire
A raven’s pinion from death’s immaculate aim.
Out of the cloud she comes, angelic and assertive.
Stand and watch. Listen for the sound of courage.
Watch again, how she falls, noble and concerted.
Sky and water turn her bones, like sun, swaying
Through old reels of black and white movies.
Her yell from a distance was unmistakable.
She was the colour of air, the colour of sea.
Ash
Grandad taught him how to make a coal fire. He would wait to hear the outside coal bunker being rattled, then grab his blanket and run downstairs, taking pole position on the sofa overlooking the fireplace. Something hypnotic floated in a cold morning air. A soft hush from ash, shovelled from under the stool-grate and placed on yesterday’s headlines. Miner’s hands turned and twisted; paper turned into perfect firelighters. Precision and experience constructed beds of coal and kindling. A strike of a match, the thud of a damper. Golden glows filled the room. He laid back and breathed in the magic.