Legless

 

Legless

 

Well, that’s torn it.

Both of them, actually –

and while instinct suggests healing,

what’s that pain you’re feeling?

 

There’s just a shadow,

an inkling, barely a pen stroke

that this is not a joke -

possibly indelible

 

like those tattoos you didn’t get -

you feel pity for those

who did – fading like the rose

they were never given:

pull down their cuffs,

keep them hidden

from scornful, unspoken stuff.

 

A summer spoilt by a misstep

and this, my dear, is unjust desserts;

keep telling yourself the hurt

was undeserved – both flat feet

hit the deck, bearing weight

you should’ve lost.

 

And the cost?

Humility and then the boy saw it all,

old enough to know

how these things sometimes go

why there’s a town full of crawlers.

 

Spoilers, darling, spoilers:

‘Were you drunk?’

Well, you had to hear that

at least once –

but, no - oh, how you rue

the impulse to undertake

that dangerous trek

down darkened stairs

to buy yourself some Chinese food.

 

Takeaway, why not?

Well, take this away, my lad,

remember in fondness              

those steps you take to make you learn,

and those you take that burn.

Pushed, Stamped, Debriefed

 

Pushed, Stamped, Debriefed

 

 

On route – the legs worked - the mind? Sharp.

Well, age makes some portions spongy-soft,

and sentiment can wrap its curds in cheese cloth,

expose to air what passes muster as heart.

The flight that took you above the clouds

still brought you down to earth somehow

until the mere act of brewing coffee is ground.

You’re resigned, feel you’ve left something behind,

but won’t be pushed, filed, stamped – it’s kind,

after all, but still glittering grey and who will pay?

You repeat yourself, unsure what lies behind –

were there spectacles? Ah, you cannot say,

cannot swear to it. There’s story here, fable,

but any allusions were but leavings on the table –

you read about that, how it descends from feast

to famine – a licking of bone, a handful of crumbs,

indexed, briefed, debriefed and numbered.

You confessed to nightmares that plague slumber,

shrugged them off – what is and ever was,

and during the unwinding of the river’s course

wondered how many million millions were lost –

you are not alone, your life is your own.

But somehow - and you know not how –

the mirror crack’d from side to side, the curse

is come upon you, the legs, once so true,

buckled beneath, failed, and found you impaled

on a clerk’s spike fashioned from Victorian nails.

Than To Arrive

 

Than to Arrive

 

What mileage is there in well-worn words?

Hearing ‘ramp it up, turbo-charge it’

and the rest – verbs too tired even to type –

you can be sure nothing will happen ever.

They’ve said, ‘It’s better to travel’

but is it really? Well, perhaps. Hopefully.

Go there - face down and slay your past -

a grim mission indeed – you’ve gone to seed,

not up to the task, it’s still mountainous,

while the dragons - well they remain.

It will be bleak there on the High Peak -

you’ve seen a mossy grass that’s blown

constant contrary to whipping winds,

delighting in tinted metal blue displays,

bordering black reservoirs, lining the floor,

as raindrops fall on Saddleworth Moor –

brittle walkways so pin-striped thin,

you could easily imagine yourself tumbling in

and the water’s cold clutching hands

reaching out to drag you back and under.

How far away now, your Cornish summer?

Halted. On hiatus – warm scalloped pastures

shelter under unshedded leafy branches

while sleepy meandering rivers trip lightly

like a schoolboy reluctant to go home,

hesitant to ford her steppingstones,

or face battles lost these forty years since

when doing a man’s work in a boy’s skin,

ever guarding against thin beating reeds.

But as for here and as for now,

they’re playing ditties on Smooth Radio,

where they’ve ironed the bass sheet-flat

to lessen peaks, troughs – blow away impact,

soften and make bland any music from then -

for age makes mellow the listener’s ears

just as cliches thrive on passing years.

Rain Stopped Play

 

Rain Stopped Play

 

 

The tyranny of the empty document

waiting for words to conjure pictures

is not unlike the falling deluge – consigned,

it would seem, to frustrate –

there, in Washington, where his players wait.

 

Within locker rooms, ideas now have time

to swim, to compete, to picture

beyond a finish line to their final fixture,

and my Filipina has it all to do:

Set down, a second pending

on serve, and can only gesture at the ending.

 

But it is not two players

looking up; offering prayers,

but nimbostratus hanging like a grubby shroud

finger on the trigger,

who will determine any outcome here.

 

And you, my love, on hiatus,

taking a nap, trusting these hungover grey skies

will clear, all disguises disappear, suns will rise;

obstacles abound for his might to confound –

some deus ex machina hanging around

 

to absolve our chimerism someday, one day:

bring players back to court after rain stops play.

Dick and Dom on Henman's Hill

 

Dick and Dom on Henman’s Hill

 

 

‘Ooo, really, you know you shouldn’t do that,’

and was her stress on ‘that’ or ‘do’?

Curling my lip, I noted her crumpled brown

paper packaging masquerading as skin

unwrap a tad – once she’d tapped it out –

delivered her sentence in flat morse code,

oh - black cap be damned - save our souls,

why don’t you? I could barely be bothered

to tell her it was some 30 / 40 years ago.

But, I did, incredulous as the words let fly,

turned my back, shut the door - then drove.

Backing up: Next door’s got more cameras

installed, security, I expect - him on a desktop,

her knit one, purl one, here’s one, laptop –

ah, but the nature you see? Yesterday a fox.

Day before? A fox. Pigeons, crows, starlings,

my God, tell you what, you get the lot,

don’t you – she’s amazed to see a hedgehog –

not just one, a family. That’s where I come in,

‘Really? I remember feeding them milk.’

Know what? There’s a lot you shouldn’t do:

Second marriages and infidelity, there’s one,

him keying some neighbour’s car, spiking

its tyres for stealing his parking – complaining

about my music, my hair, my lifestyle,

both spying for the DHSS, scribbling files full

of nonchalant devilry – begging me to take

two daughters to school out of goodness’ sake

and convenience – ‘You work there, after all’,

despising football then hearing their footfall

on Wembley Way that time City lifted the cup.

Fine. Fine. I don’t censure, it’s all banal,

worse things are floating in Worksop canal

that drift into the Idle, the Trent, the Humber.

Don’t let any words disturb your slumber –

just keep on checking your CCTV monitors

for 30 or 40 years waving as they pass you by.

You want my opinion? Cut to Wimbledon

where Clare Balding’s choking on words,

wrestling them from her misinformed throat,

can’t keep up with play, so crossfades to herds

for the burning want of an emergency fill -

there’s millions of you waving on Henman’s Hill.

Counting Laps

 

Counting Laps

 

Someone who estimates their laps is lying –

not in a big way, but nonetheless

they smooth out a rough guess to impress.

As I’m rounding the far buoy for the fourth

or fifth time (it’s difficult to be sure,

see what I did there; so easy isn’t it?) -

maybe a third or sixth lap, I think about this

and pull a few languid breaststrokes, viz:

‘Oh, yeah, been to Corfu a couple of times,

can’t remember, how many now’ (she can),

or ‘Think I did maybe about 10,000 yesterday,’

(he checked his smartwatch straight away),

I can see them all sprawled on the beach.

Now, this water’s freezing, but I’m getting

my money’s worth, you can be sure of that,

sharing the Fal Estuary with jellyfish, mullet,

and any other deep sea horrors that kiss

my bootless feet – swim on and dismiss –

as 30 minutes previous, 3 heads motioned

at me – I spotted familiarity in the salted

disembodied faces, but quickly struck out

for that blue yacht, wilfully ignoring shouts,

crossing the line between what’s known

and what is not. They’ve reserved a rock

for me, no doubt, threadbare towel dropped

upon it, sand up cracks: ‘How many laps?’

‘What’s it like? In there?’ Nodding interest

but wiping the gravel from their phones.

Bollocks to it. But I can’t shiver here in foam

forever and, therefore, in a dissimilar way

to Ursula Andress, (Doctor No), emerge,

dripping iced waters from prick-pin flesh,

gathered roughly no costly conch shells;

therefore, I guess, have nothing left to sell.

Pegula

 

Pegula

 

You remember from far childhood, a haunting voice,

calling across the heather and gorse:

‘Come awae now, Jess, come away ma wee one.’

Can you almost see my outstretched hand,

pulling you back – from this to that far land?

Just a French fancy, pay it no heed,

wide of the mark; here’s another tumbling seed

that sticks its gossamer to the breeze,

falls, most certain to fruit in stages and ages.

But something’s not quite right, call it amiss,

you’re serving and your every stroke kisses

the tape – from ball toss to volley – he’s spinning,

who knows which way or what it might add –

a bristling mongoose that strikes Nagaina or Nag,

and leaps or snags, falls in faults deuce side.

No let, no net, did they forget? ‘Come awae, Jess,

now come awae,’ let the wind address tresses -

I sense it, watching – rankling me, imperceptibly

drifting upon Chocolonely, asking what sort of name,

but can’t confirm it when eyesight’s to blame.

An umpire high upon her chair knows those to keep -

surely discards any rules that are obsolete

or slow the match down, Jess, I think the message’s

best kept an open secret – it’s a short enough life,

all mixed doubles, net calls, not right, not wrong -

‘Come away, now, come awae home, ma wee one,’

she haunts me too, take two, have some, keep mum.