Linseed on Willow

 

Linseed on Willow

 

Somewhere near Sherwood in a garage or shed,

a boy can only remember looking up –

and decades later how there was a book, given,

something like We Need to Talk about Kevin

or KP, his biography, some scandal or other

but like Squeeze, he couldn’t be bothered

with arrangements, a left note, a door closed,

or another nail for the heart.

And in this garage or shed were tools and such,

linseed oil, a sweet smelling lint-free cloth,

circular motions and a cricket bat set forth

on his bench. Instructions – how it was imperative

for, if not, that soft willow will crack.

In truth the boy was not much interested in that

but probably wondered if it was the wood that wept

because I know him. And as for the book,

well, the flies buzzed around lamps when he slept.

Her First Spoon and Pusher

 

Her First Spoon and Pusher

 

They puke up recommendations

you know – from algorithms,

other selections you might enjoy

along those lines, I don’t care enough

to fact check that stuff,

I’m sure you’re quick enough cotton on,

an idiom and archaic phrase

that comes from the adhesive state

of fibres, since I asked; you didn’t.

I see these videos all the time

and is it on the nose to point it out

along the lines of - well, why?

There’s another one you may’ve missed,

harks back to railways, theodolites and such;

gangs of navvies glyphing millstone grit

to carve their initials there.

But look, try not to snigger as he stares

pretty vacant - clickbait, you’d call it, not me:

it’s My Daughter’s 1st Listen

to ‘Home by the Sea’. That’s all?

Genesis, 43 years old, not great,

off an album thought third rate,

not a patch on Foxtrot, Nursery Cryme

which are definitely beyond this pair,

but could I give a monkey’s? Not me.

Here’s a few I’ve tossed off, feel free:

My daughter’s first bib, first beaker, first fart,

her very first piece of very shitty art,

look - her very first Barcelona baby-gro,

and maybe someday he’ll actually go

to Spain, Portugal or Mother Russia.

Fuck him; his adoption of half assed tunes -

and if you’re watching her very first spoon

then check out her very first pusher.

Right Here Right Now

 

Right Here Right Now

 

This morning:

 

Saturday early doors, in the gym,

nothing labyrinthine,

nothing fatboy, nothing slim,

nothing much of anything.

 

He thinks:

 

The 90’s are far, far away,

and, on losing their way

in 75, Slade refrained from that.

Dylan long raised his pillbox hat

to Ray Davies’ phenomenal cat

one lazy sunny afternoon,

he’s gonna be there, very soon.

 

She cocks an eyebrow:

 

Silky mistress, keeping score

says how they should do more

it being the weekend -

and looks right fetching

in that tight bustle

licking lips, something supple.

 

They’re eating breakfast:

 

After a half hour’s preparation

sets out a cold collation,

sofa’d up, catching news,

and if she’s confused,

he’ll translate –

fruits upon a wooden plate

careful cuts fondly shaped.

 

She considers:

 

The dentist for treatment

of a couple of gaps, replacements:

has sourced the best value

suggest he checks and he allows

they’re not getting any younger.

 

And they both wonder:

 

About lay, lady, lay

and it can be that way -

but often at this age

it’s something of a slog,

getting the sleeping dog

to wake up and bark,

how it’s only a part

of it all, anyway,

and why it happened 

right here, right now,

why not yesterday, somehow,

or way back when

it was told you’re never too old

to begin again.

Bus Shelters and Tunnels

 

Bus Shelters and Tunnels

 

Manchester refuses to swim into being

and cannot yet coalesce

but Sheffield is there – bits of it –

 

Bramall Lane, a child asking Wednesday,

some block-built offices where he worked,

cars cross-stitching a double deck viaduct

and rumpled paths in steep-vallied woods.

 

A rail divides this concrete bus shelter

in brutalist hollow paneled kicked out glass,

framed Winter winds are blistering skin,

his small hands need a good mittening.

 

Maybe two others there, too,

it’s of no consequence – what’s piquing

and forming in his mind are hollows.

One, either end. Why? How can

passengers find shelter there, when air

must funnel in at that end, then this?

Where is the warmth, middling bliss,

of the balming womby fleece?

 

They may or may not

have got on a bus,

but, in any case, with nothing like the fuss

of a jump cut, he’s taken,

across a road near Bocking Lane

looking down to stare at trains.

 

Leans over that drystone wall

built of rocks, raises a call

that echoes through thickets,

over trails and rooty rough mud track,

he’d picked his way through that,

holding Aunty Jean’s rough hands.

 

Tunneling far below in miniature

like a thin metal needle through unsewn sampler,

thunders the 1155 to Manchester.

We Didn’t Mean to Put a Lid

 

We Didn’t Mean to Put a Lid

 

Does she wonder if she gets what she pays for?

You’d doubt it.

Flying ultra budget,

because hey we’re going to Majorca

on Coconut Airways

and now she’ll take them on,

best the corporate beast,

trouser some pocket change at the very least.

The lawyer’s on it -

it’s lucky how she’s a nurse

or else it might've been that much worse -

could’ve been a child, after all.

Well – if any right thinker

would trust their offspring

to gadgets made from sealing wax and string,

with leg room fit to swing

a noosed gnat.

Daddy, daddy, we didn’t mean to go to sea,

so let’s make grown-up noise

like how, years ago, I read we’d take

a cheap 18th Century packet,

from Dover to Calais, toss and turn -

or walk beside a mired mail coach

up Shooters Hill, puffing away,

beside grime spattered draft horses,

a 6-up hitch stuck in courses

over-topped with mud;

how we’d push the hind boot

to help breast the peak.

Ah, look, she’s gone and got burnt.

That hot coffee with malice aforethought

has slopped; viciously plopped

onto her lap – how it dropped

its load, she cannot in all conscience say.

We didn’t mean to put a lid

or we did if we had, but the budgets don’t run,

still, not much worse than the sun

might ask of your skin.

Lucky, she’s a medic though,

because flight attendants haven’t a clue

these days and she’s lost her words

for surface wipes or dry paper towels.

At the time, she howled,

but later, kipping on a sunbed, poolside,

not prepared to put a lid on it

and all of a loose lipped

cat, rat, bag - thinks how they could sink ships

and, having nursed her thoughts

took the whole kit and kaboodle to court.

Potions

 

Potions

 

Dear…I am Filipina,

there must be potions.

Yesterday, you tease her,

saying you are like witch

chiefly thinking of those

three you never met,

delighting in equivocation

and I’ll get you yet,

Penelope Pitstop.

No Hooded Claw, for sure,

more Sylvester Sneekly,

pretending to meekly

accept potions for warts,

apple acid on feet,

lotion for elbows

rubbed raw from rested chins,

in what passes for thinking.

Medicines for depression,

that which lessen

gnawing fear, panic, dread,

a drug for a weary head

that built the toppled towers.

Crème with power

to soothe rashed up lips,

potent lavender to slip

onto coarse throat and ease,

and something blue

for the weekend, please.

All this after half an hour

screaming, making hot motion

at her cool iPhone,

because a naughty sister

left an octogenarian mother alone,

threatened to scoop her

from home. Even at 53

that one seeks work in Davo City,

something to bespell,

putting potions there as well.

Yesterday, you heckle her with:

you’re like my mother

she shrugs back,

grins and gives

good you have mother like me:

in truth she’s so unlike

and so far,

we’d cross seven seas.

In potions she conjures

all the pushing oceans -

we float in her dreams

and my visions

of all drowned lovers.

A Penny for Them

 

A Penny For Them

 

Usually, there's twelve to a shilling.

Fat, warm, copper browns

but not in that three up, two down -

if you look close, they’re a penny short.

Wondering if it’ll be caught

escaping by way of tainted summer canals,

secreted in the sister’s pocket

after everyday lifting from a Mother’s purse,

bit naughty, but could be worse,

and on the towpath home from school

she’d pull it out, like a hot plum

from Jack Horner’s pie.

Swift into the sweet shop, buy

a fistful of fruit salads, blackjacks

chocolate coin, kayli, something like that,

fill their gobs, scoff them quick,

like a David Nixon conjuring trick

and then, in a fit of righteous panic

rub teeth with toothbrush fingers.

Would candied breath lift the latch,

speak the crime, blow the gaff?

Marching that winding path

that weaved its way through gated gardens

above Slack Walk is its own class

taught - if you’re up for it and willing.