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.

 

All We Need is Mary

 

All We Need is Mary

 

 

The trains were broken again. I’d planned escape,

a few quiet hours to pick at the bites

mosquitos had left after taking flight.

But no. She told me, in her dull drawl, about failure –

signals, Liskeard, redeployed crews, delays,

a platform full of abnegated people who secretly pray

to Mary on a donkey finding some stables.

‘Oh, they’re a sorry lot, but what can you do?’

I could think of a few things, but curbed my views,

cursed, huffed my way back down Station Road,

‘Bloody country, everything’s fucked, you know?’

in my head, but no doubt some of it forthed,

in Caesar-like wrath before daggers descended.

At home, a dozen chores sat waiting, offended

by my getaway – there slept indolent Old Nick,

slowly, slowly filling – just another wafer-thin mint.

Yes, I was undone but resolved - to walk fair Truro’s

cobbles once more, pay some visits, leaf through

her undoubted delights. They named a market

for lemon trees, you know? I cannot say why this is,

some executive must have sucked at his biro lid,

thought, ‘That’ll catch on.’ Then, once he was rid

of his annual masterstroke, turned on the taps,

sluiced spittle-streams from chewed plastic caps.

There’s a new stall selling vinyl and a small chap:

I approached cautiously, men do, it’s a ploy -

call it reserve, not blowing the gaff, being coy,

unengaged - scoff inwardly, avoid swift contact

and circle each other as though neither is there,

but aware. Hackles? Why, yes. Entering the lair

of another wolf, for sure. Flicking through discs,

he decides to risk it first, ‘Looking for something?’

Ah, that old one. ‘Cheers, but I'm enjoying the hunt,’

I reply, curt. He backs off, smaller than me, a runt

but younger, maybe 10 years. Throw him a bone,

now scent lines are established: ‘The Stones?’

Shakes shaggy head. ‘Maybe ‘Pussycats’ by Nilsson.’

He grins at the credentials. ‘Yes, yes, John Lennon

produced it, didn’t he? Been after that myself.’

So we're friends. And as it turns out, such stealth

pays dividends – not just a teacher, Head of English

if you please. ‘Me, too, crazy.’ Before relinquishing

hands, knowing he plays guitar, let’s form a band

why not, coconut? ‘Nilsson, again?’ Definitely Harry.

He’s Paul, I’m Peter – now, all we need is Mary.

Thin Lines, Thick Lines

 

Thin Lines, Thick Lines

 

Back in the 70s, The Persuaders claimed

with some authority, it was only a thin line;

later, on ‘Learning to Crawl’,

The Pretenders sang the same –

both were wrong, it’s a bloody thick one.

Is it a line at all? More like a brick wall;

with barbs and spikes, sweat up it and fall,

negotiate machine gun turrets, no man’s land

and let Robin put his arrow right through it.

You know you’re onto jack-shit

when arguments summon Languor

of Olympus - antique Greek God of Disanger,

with all his attendant minions,

stepping gaily and off to ‘Mairi’s Wedding’.

You try telling that to the Poindexters

or Teddy Pendergrass - they won’t believe you -

no, it’s all sinister steps and extra textures

for them, one eyed blind giants feeling the fleece

as Odysseus, belly up, hides beneath

clutching clefs that unlock boxes to release

universal truths or dropping keys to D minor

to signify sadness, madness or both.

You know what once was is toast

when nothing much happens at all –

You just sit without, within your brick wall

wax crayoning thicker and thicker lines

but don’t bother to exhibit a waste of time.

In the end, my friend put it best –

‘You will know,’ she said, ‘When I don’t bother,

to tell you your hair’s getting longer,

trim your nails, take pride in caring your feet,

tell you to change your shirt, lay clean sheets

before I put you into bed.

Now, this milk made for old people like us two

to live long life – I started to take this one;

so must you.’ And - you do.

Blackberry Way

 

Blackberry Way

I am old –  groan noiselessly

when she announces in pebble smooth tones,

‘Grandad, we’re coming to your home.’

 

Whatever shutters that exist

inside the head descend in whatever that is –

tiredness, maybe the need to be alone,

flushed thinking usurped by another’s design,

because you need time to take the time.

 

Or energy, where did that go?

10 years ago I was scarcely this slow,

and before that, watched my children grow,

taught them to read maps, trace contours

with fingers, choose safe roads, avoid detours.

 

At the swimming pool, I clowned it up,

although I’m not sure my heart was in it

I did my trick, with the shades and stick:

the blindman, tripping over the edge, falling in,

looks of disapproval; laughs from them.

 

Later, on a ramble down to the stream

with bribes of some-day, one-day ice cream,

3 of us counting flowers, cataloguing colours,

making super-slow progress

due to defective shoes, wardrobe issues

trying to find rainbows within undergrowth

and above the sun shining like it’s summer.

 

And there were blackberries – along the way –

our lips purpled from picking at splays

in the thickets and thorns.

 

So when my little one looked up

from his bowl of grub

children's menu in a tacky traveller’s pub

just off the A30 at Fraddon –

spooning pasta and peas inside at mach speed

and says: ‘Grandad, more please,’

had I ever in my days seen such joy,

or life in the eyes of a young boy?

Fused

 

Fused

 

Something nabbed your attention

before you upped, took flight

early morning - the night’s

just given up the ghost, packed his bags

calling a bad job good while it lasted

but some things are just past it –

irretrievable – expired warrantees.

On the unvarnished fence, beneath the trees,

not one wood pigeon, but three –

an odd number, you’ll agree,

and all sorts of jiggery pokery on display.

You shrugged, went for coffee,

the kettle’s bust – well, of course it is –

the culprit’s hammocked upstairs,

blasé about the whole affair,

everything breaks when you don’t care.

So, that’s you in need of a flat white

because everything’s called something shite

these days – in your pocket a fuse.

There’s only handfuls of peoples, don’t lose

any hair over it, no need for grief,

know that each and every one’s a thief

of what sanity’s left – don’t grit teeth,

keep your eyes fixed on the cobbles,

avoid the desperation in those hobbled

gawps of Big Issue pushers, high-viz jackets

gives the vigilant an advantage –

you’re in Wetherspoons, any damage

kept to a minimum – scanning headlines,

thinking replacements, crossed red lines,

blown sockets, burnt junction boxes

and, of course, cost. Whatever the causes,

were, or will be, or had been,

in the end doesn’t matter, it seems,

and, on your return, you look to the fences –

two of three have scarpered, one’s alone,

seen through the ruse, feels blown.