In The Anderson Shelter…

In the Anderson Shelter they wait to be collected
in dust-coats, upright with fear
they are also dutiful soldiers; sitting to attention (as they were)

they face one another on old kitchen chairs
Letty’s hands folded in her lap and Cath’s alligator bag
her papers and her valuables inside

clutched tightly in her brittle fingers. Before they are re-buried
an inventory is done
Letty in her widows black, her stockings tied with rags

and in that bag of Cath’s
an amethyst ring
a wristwatch that’s her Wilf’s.

seasonal

sings the little black bird
sweet and furious beside
the anodyne call of the dove.

Sirens on the wind they herald
an advancing army
spring is swarming green

while just awake
a gently fizzing, dust-drenched bee
alights

the xanthous bell of a Daffodil
murmuring doused; drowsy
oscillates from bloom to graceful bloom

Garden, Summer 1970

oh to revisit the church of my faith; dunk my feet in warm suds, swipe at the cool grass
gulp down the sweet, dilute juice. Amanda, Jane, Dolly, Ted, lined up to dry; naked

legs splayed in a spiritless vinyl salute to the sun. If I prayed it was to stay the execution
of those days, to ward off the blow of September and the return to school.

On long evenings, when the others had gone for hot baths, I laid under the shade
of the tepee and counted on my fingers, the painted feathers hidden in the canvas folds.

Soft, devout, I reassured my silent, newly fragrant friends,of my dedication, my mother’s love
and chewing on green acid gum, I realigned them, tucking them tight into blue blanket beds.

An After School Swim

At the water’s edge I lay in the easy company of the dragonfly
somnolent; beguiled by the chirrup of the crickets in the long grass
I watch, wait for the gentle kiss of the carp to break the surface still.

Long shadows are cast by the sunlight that filters through the trees
glorious as it meets late summers eve
but then with whoops and shouts, stirring the sediment to brew

a muddy ale; a sudden commotion. Marauders! Invaders! Jeers and catcalls ring out
as becalmed becomes a boiling sea of flailing arms
of jumps in and boisterous splashing’s and ducking’s of the head.

Pudgy toes glide in the slime, and sticky mud is drawn into the crevices
in the skin as frogs bark alarm calls and ducks depart the water in a flap
and boys spout, spray in splendid sparring ‘I can spit furthest’ shows.

Laughing they pummel the losers, hold aloft the champions, their shoulders, faces
freckling in the glare. They dive, seeking cities lost to the river bed, surface
empty handed, flecked with scum.

In a while the water cools and their skin is pricked and mottled blue
and the breeze, lit like a still green stick, sings soft through the leaves above
setting them adrift on the water, meandering unhurried to the grassy banks.

Rousing cries fall to idle talk, teeth chatter and sweaters are dragged over wet, wild hair
as short trousers are staggered into and wrinkled, cold-white feet squelch into plimsolls
before the boys, tired, empty-bellied make for home.

In moments they are gone; swallowed by the trees and only echoes
and a trail blazed by feet and sharp sticks trampling the meadow grass
remain. Vanquished, doleful I return to my idling; wait for the kiss of the carp.

Picnic, Queens Wood Summer ’73

my sister was on him like a cat at a squab and as she sprang
I watched the flesh of her thigh tauten beneath her skirt.

In a second there she was up on the high beam
a panther in black; her hands clammy, chalked

stinky plimsolls on her bony feet. He lay there shocked
as she sat astride him; beat his face with her fists

took his hair between her fingers and yanked.
When he’d shaken her off she turned a straight back

to us all and picked up her book -a crease cleaving
the page. I chewed until the sandwich was a gobbet

and my brother, puce, had a look of the bee-stung
glugging the last of the lemonade for spite.

On the walk home my sister left us trailing, disquieted
but it was not the length of her stride that kept us apart.

Tuesday, August 4th.

(The world would never be the same..)

the first sallow light is diffused by gossamer curtains
and has funnelled through keyholes; crawled
crept beneath the doors

of attic rooms where the beds lie empty
still warm, but made already
in the first of the morning chores

inching toward Tuesday the still sleeping house stirs
the footfalls on a creaking step are measured
the tap, tap of blakeys on the flags, muffled

an oil lamp hisses, spits in the gloom and casts a spherical shadow
on the wainscot that flutters, dithers in the draft from an open window
and gambols amid the ripples on a walnut bureau

upstairs voices are low, undistinguished, the air peppy, cigar-stale
and in the algid scullery below a familiar, tubercular cough is choked down
for fear it will disturb the peace

in the empty parlour the mantel clock ticks, resolute
each velvet click meticulous; the wheel snaring on the pinion
-release, catch, release; marking time.

outside a blinkered Bay snorts, whinnies
a whistling boy arrives, bundle in hand
breaks the quotidian

with a snap of the twine
and snatching up the papers, he cries aloud in the gentle quiet
‘Read All About It, Great Britain Goes To War’

amid this almost Sunday grace (in this kingdom come to tether’s end)
a crudely crafted cherry wood spoon lays idle
the sticky stem worn thin; tepid water pooled in the bowl

close by, in an English earthenware basin
chipped at the rim and cloaked in cool, starched linen
a soft, amenable dough is rising.

Is Your Grandmother Better?

 

 

she has packed up, backed up
hair frizzed in the heat
a fly sizzles
dazzled by the blue light
a fait accompli
on this hot night
and she likes that

she is hacked off
listening each night to the
chink, chinking of espresso cups
to each and every kind of cough, cough
and ‘Is your Grandmother better’
‘The pastries are delicious’
enough, enough!

around her ankles water pools
blue roads map her skin but she is lost and
a thunder gathers between her brows
as a couple browse the menu, peruse, choose
change their minds ‘No, we’ll have
..the soup’ and still her feet ache, still the clatter
and she minds, she really minds the empty chatter

the orders shouted to the kitchen, pouting short order chef
‘two minestrone, table twenty two, no croutons!’
Outside she stands cooling in the heat, blows blue smoke
wipes that brow and listens to the crickets buzz
the steady beat, beating in her breast,
slips off her sneakers to give her feet the rest
thinks about that fly

Dinka

On the News At Ten a woman sat beneath a sparse leaved tree
a dust-bathed slender stork
her spindle fingers at her gathered brow
she rested on her haunches
toes splayed she beckoned, invited me close enough (almost)
to stroke a bitter chocolate velvet
if incurvate cheek.

Taking a bundle from between her bony knees
skeletal arms outstretched
she proffered it to me
a baba wrapped in a prayer shawl
bleached by the sun
its faded, fancy patterns shouting ‘Thanks to God’
wounding me.

I gazed at the dull eyed and indifferent child
then with my mothers nature
reached out and to the screen to save the child
but the woman drew back
and keeping it close she swaddled it tighter
one dismissive hand waving me away
shaking her head.

It was then that I understood
she had wanted only to move me
and that from sofa to screen
is not a journey and as I hesitated
she rose slowly, resolute
seeming giant like
as she turned her back and ambled languidly away.