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.

Broken

 

Broken

 

 

Not hearts, not yet – that’d be a crime,

I’m told – no, consider the washing line

in the garden, planted plumb, now askew

beckoning to you, come, come –

it looks like rain, sodden cloth will strain

and science points out foregone conclusions.

Why your frown fords rivers in confusion

a wilful blindness, or, if you wish,

incalcitrant unbelief that you dish up

when things fall apart, strewn in bits

around your feet; it gets right on my tits.

A sort of a Shinigami syndrome,

I turn my back on you; it’s broken,

reaching for my wallet, pulling out cards

as weeds crack open paving on the yard,

your fan oven's blown her cover aghast - 

surely if something’s serviced, it lasts,

but without effort it’s next to no use,

when I begged the kettle today, it refused.

Such Stuff

 

Such Stuff

 

Sometimes there’s a flurry of interest

in some older lines

I wrote, when the universe

was less than half its present size

and such wisdom I was gifted was not wise.

These words wrote for bad luck – named for 96 -

penned 10 years ago when I was sick,

and, as such, more a McFlurry of a poem

rather than a stiff breeze

raking her insubstantial hands through leaves

to pour over what can be read

in such shed skeletons littered there.

Such stuff is hard to scan,

some younger self buried within

interred in murky caverns where

the only touch is the feeling fingers of despair

scoping mossy walls.

Ah – we’re scarcely there at all:

Recall, it was dubbed voluntary

but do it - or we'll all go to the wall -

they’d offered parting presents, a speech

from his own to each –

‘Here’s a record voucher, take it to Pete’s.’

At first you refused, shook a sullen head,

but, acquiesced, spared shame – redeemed it:

there was no love - blank slates

that waxed lyrical and £20,000, give or take.

So, you can see, any words from then

are tainted like a sailor’s tar–dyed nails,

scarred autumn brown; when I sailed

I left a mess behind, well, you do

when it’s sprung like a trap – it’s true

she said she’d wait, but I don’t blame her:

I did, you understand? It burnt,

tormented those coils within until unlearnt,

a rubbing of sea salt into rashes - make it sting,

flesh abraded, buffed raw, to delight in singing

dirges – yo-heave-ho – something Siberian.

Leave it at that –

ten years after the fact, those words

were mulch, a sediment forked

after all that was said and more that was thought –

such stuff

as blossomed windfall apples.

Like As the Blackbird

 

Like As the Blackbird

 

 

Like as the blackbird uproots the sparrow

who offers temerity as occupied space,

so do you, one unsown day, stride the narrow

Cornish quiet lanes, strewn like straw – make haste

while the sun burns golden fields fallow.

On the right flood tides have swollen Truro River,

placid she lies, satisfied, hardly a contraction –

‘Push,’ you think, ‘Let’s see action,’

for nothing so deep can ever be empty,

scoped troughs disclose her horn of plenty

where Lady Mary Killigrew’s ghost mans sentry.

So, now, here’s a dog – a real beast – carnivore

that snaps your leash between his jaws,

not one of your crawling mops – arrow straight,

he leaps out to symphonies, a dreadnought,

an iron spine, a bulwark cutting barely a wake,

who yields at last to his master’s voice.

Rounding the bend – as if there ever was choice –

come across at last those squat dwellings

that bed themselves into rocks, hang off cliffs

like a crooked mouth full of milk-teeth

in need of dentist, tooth fairy or both maybe,

rest awhile, sip beer, look to see that same blackbird

harrying near, ‘Release! Let slip! Take flight!’

It’s but a fancy – but even as the day becomes night,

let Robert Culliford push open floodgates and write.

String Beings

 

String Beings

 

 

Let’s talk leads, the cheap nylon sort,

dyed, red, green, blue; an eye for a hook,

just one notch up from baler string - look,

they’re sprouting like runner beans supported

by cack-handed, fist planted bamboo cane,

hanging off bent nails in budget petshops.

You know, leads presuppose guidance,

direction, the firm hand of a flight lieutenant,

chocks away – they’re off. Here’s a couple

with a fistful of dogs, small - burnt crumpets

on four legs with barks like toy trumpets -

your Mini-Milks scraped off the bottom

of the Poundland ice cream freezer

bargain basement acquisitions, less Caesar

more seized, hung bags of shit from trees

comes extra. They’re tripping the Gay Gordons

in a Gordian knot of cat’s cradles, cordoning

off safe passage, choking thoroughfares,

any protests made falling on deaf ears –

like: ‘Hey, walking here, I’m walking here!’

too late – dog’s seen the rabbit, he’s off,

owners phone scrolling, vaping or moths

to any gossip candle, hers on hers and hers,

in words tossed out so fast they’re blurred,

sheep in wolves’ clothing tugging herds.

‘Well, did you hear, did you hear, no, well -’

if words were mince there’d be pies enough,

shepherds a-plenty would have their fill,

most of them on pills, ill defined diseases,

dragging their dolly-dogs just as they please –

‘You can’t bring that bloody thing in here,

she says to me, there’s produce to flog.’

Strange – you don’t see guide dogs

as much anymore, negotiating safe routes -

who knows, maybe they’ve been crowded out.

You’d like to remonstrate with them, shout,

but no such luck -        

ah, you’d envy the life of a root vegetable

just before it’s plucked.

The Sunken Kingdom of Lyonesse

 

The Sunken Kingdom of Lyonesse

 

 

‘Will all Great Neptune –‘ Trevillion cries,

on horseback mounted; bound for St Michael’s:

between a trot and canter, abandoning lance,

raising his visor, skimming his hevva dance

on top of black churning backwash.

Did not the sea lick hooves, lap fetlocks,

advance on her pastern? As the land dropped,

Admiral Benbow himself stirred his ghost

to walk Chapel Street from post to post,

summoned Baines – ‘Cease your spinning,

there are greater yarns than these to be told.’

For it has come to this – that gold scimitar

bending Marazion into Mousehole far

as soft Devonian bounded by granite blocks,

owes dues to her serpentine and schist rocks –

is invaded, has fallen. Dogs, choked by string

do strut and fret, yap at the smallest thing

that stirs within oceans deep, trip the unwary,

lift legs to leave their mustard marks.

Baying hollowed hordes bellow nothings

to scroll and ring across the retreating bay –

there is nothing left they did not nothing say.

And that once great Kingdom of Lyonesse

sucked reefs - fled to sink itself within distress.

Things I Gotta Do

 

Things I Gotta Do

 

 

It’s easy to grasp when you reach back pages,

the climax passed or you’re racing

towards it fast – antique thumbprints

and rickety fingers turning down corners,

reluctant to put it aside, turn off the light

there goes another day, here comes the night.

Assuming you read, crack codes - some still do,

but I wouldn’t blame you –

an underrated pastime by an overrated mass,

but mostly let’s just let it pass.

Last night, my Grandson, pushing grub

around his plate gave me a surreptitious nudge –

‘Put it on here, son,’ I hissed, tapping my plate,

but later accidentally let it slip, game’s up –

so after tea, we’re off down the park,

shooting hoops, hoofing football, laughed -

You see? Things we gotta do

that don’t apply to me and you.

I’m not sure you’re a fan of the beautiful game,

you took up guitar, put it down again,

music brings on rashes, writing’s a chore –

but fair play, I can’t stick rugby, fucking boring,

and no way I’m pounding streets to keep fit.

There, you see, that’s an end to it,

really, don’t you think? Nothing personal, rude –

it’s philosophy, how we see things, in the end

I won’t expect you and don’t expect me to bend

or overlay your charts onto my maps -

we're goalkeepers with nothing left to defend,

backing into nets when games end.

Stepping Stones

 

Stepping Stones

 

 

She says: ‘Is this it for me?’

You returned from overseas,

a longish stint, nothing comes easy –

with war chucked in for good measure,

triggered for the pleasure

of those wired enough to plunge detonators.

 

But, she doesn’t want any rows,

talking New Zealand, couple of years from now –

fourth or fifth trip, who’s counting?

 

You’ve refused to go, but will foot the bill,

way past a dubious thrill

of seeing mountains behind more mountains

and with two brothers coming here anyway

to rubber boot your holiday,

you’re thinking ‘Here it goes again.’

 

Is that a slight rash,

left side, where your balls chafe your leg?

You walk a lot, note it all down most days,

then sit solo upstairs, writing as the records play,

grateful distractions have upped and fled

churning sour milk into butter.

 

Let’s think on retirement.

It’s fanciful – maybe an allotment,

try your hand at cultivating produce,

healthy, you know?

But looks like that aren’t made, they’re born.

 

Settled in front of the television, yawns –

‘And what do you know of such things.’

It’s ‘Little House on the Prairie’ and he’s fixing stuff

bellyaching there’s not enough

money in his pocket, food on the table:

unhitches the team and plough from the stable.

 

You’re asking whether she’s gone blind, yet,

and, met with a double negative,

point out 5 years ago you were playing air

until someone planted a guitar there;

think of the band – she thinks, she groans.

 

Later, you tell him ‘Let’s go!’

to where weeks of heat has made the river low,

spot fishes by banks, gaze at it flow

and practise laughing on the stepping stones.

Ruby, Woah

 

Ruby, Woah

 

 

Does the past exist in black and white?

I’ve seen the pictures - grimaces in grim sepia tones,

couples that bleed together looking alone,

dustbowl smiles that failed to cultivate

prairies of salted paper prints – three by three inch -

and possessed of thick, forbidding borders.

 

Today, we’ve a pre-season friendly,

nothing of consequence, but we arrive early -

mighty Truro to be toasted - flash-roasted

by your hubristic Exeter City who – with maximum fuss,

swaggered off the bus and lost.

 

Hard to put fingers on how. Their number 15 blazed

resplendent red trails, raised fire-streaks on green baize,

but we’ve our very own indigo Harry Kane

mighty in mid-field, steals a penalty,

lashes it home between the milk-white frame

and the onion bag bulges.

 

Post match, he’s on his phone, though –

‘Grandad, hurry, we’ve got to go,’

and he’s tackling the viridian verges,

sprinting ahead, square on square, a paintbox splurge,

hurtling crossroads, hurdling kerbs

and I’m sweating to match him under buttercup sun.

 

‘What’s the hurry, son?’

He’s tight lipped, has to get to the gym, pre-closing,

pump his upper-body, grind his traps -

points to the car-park where his mother’s waiting

to pick me, dashes inside – an iridescent flash.

 

‘Ah, that’ll be Ruby, his friend.’ she clarifies,

and I speculate, but, ‘No, she’s 18.’

But I remembered how Mary Wilson made me putty

in the upper sixth, how lucky

I felt just to scent her auburn tresses, her swishing dresses,

how I soared when she let me take her hand.

 

Even to this day, my pulse still can race, take first place,

mount podiums for dazzling medals -

I ragged him later, a little, scanned his face –

he denied it with a crimson blush that bloomed, flourished,

looked back on this match. It didn’t matter;

 

we’d queued for beer, Coke for him, heard the clatter

of expectant cheers, prism crews, mosaics all limbering up,

asked a fellah behind us – if we pose, take a shot

for remembrance - I grin gawky from over his shoulder,

looking back at him getting older –

how his past detonates forever colours.

Them’s The Breaks

 

Them’s The Breaks

 

 

All this hot weather turns milk sour,

the bottoming globs glower

while sallow whey rises to the top –

feels wrong, looks wrong, is wrong:

a sort of tie-dyed, jaundiced,

cheesecloth shock-mop to slop

out flushed specks that exit the carton

with dragging feet and harden.

Nothing doing for my coffee, then,

I lay down my almost eager pen

and slap in slippers the odd mile or so

into town. It’s early, coming seven,

half risen sun’s scrubbing out heavens –

I’m thinking ‘Spar’s convenient’,

or so they continually claim.

Coming down by the viaduct, endgame

within reach, I spot two by the door,

smoking, vaping, all the same –

studying my approach, detached.

I can see they’ve not lifted the latch

yet, watching with expectation.

I’ve already predicted explanations:

‘Sorry, dear, don’t open ‘til 7.30,’

all caretaker language, Ms Honey tones,

they even set aside their phones -

think manicured nails down blackboard,

Stradivarius mistuned, misbowed,

a warbling chorus of rough crows,

G-string’s bust, half simpered sympathy,

the rest pure smug-shot; I care not.

‘Them’s the breaks,’ I might’ve mumbled -

didn’t – changed direction, stumbled

a jot – like you do – made the Co-Op.

clutching the blessed pint in my fist,

I set back the way I came, deep breaths,

of course, it’s bloody open by now,

but I’m hoping what they blow they suck –

and - I suppose - glad it was only dear:

not bro, mate, buddy or chuck.

Mr Chips

 

Mr Chips

 

 

Catchphrase, ITV – a sweaty, smirking, Roy Walker,

thieving pairs of donkey’s hind-legs -

Poor legless bastards, bemused, sit up and beg –

‘Can you say what you see? What it is yet?’

Here’s Mr Chips, hiding behind a celebrity square,

doing something suspect, all hands - you’d swear

on tribes of honest injun’s tripping the Can Can –

it shouldn’t happen to a vet, let alone a man.

All this is apropros of nothing, random beliefs

like when you’d not bothered brushing your teeth,

there’s a smell sweet - tuna fish, is it? Good grief.

Now, there was this dog, probably shaggy, his tail

wagging as you entered Archie’s pub, a talker?

Not much of one, but he had a hot trick or two

under his collar, he’d go on the nick, like they do,

partial to a bag of cheese and onion. Now, the boxes,

well, they were on the floor, with holes your socks

would be proud of, cut out - he could get his snout

in there quicker than your liminal zone could shout,

‘Crisps!’ Which we all did. Frequently. ‘Crisps!’

And he’s off and at them, bagged him a packet,

settles it between his front paws, then, snags it

with his canny teeth and he’s having his portion.

Bad breath? Wouldn’t get close, if you’re asking.

Poor Archie, at his wits end, he’s multi-tasking,

begging us, ‘Fellahs, don’t say ‘Crisps’!’

So, of course, we did it more, so did the labrador,

its belly getting so big, it’s scrubbing the floor,

which had to help, right? Until, one day, dog’s dead.

I stopped going after that, don’t know why -

well, I do - but I found new pubs, invited in, ‘Drink!’

they’d say, ‘Drink!’ You’re by toilets, under sinks

black holes getting blacker until there was only black.

‘Say what you see.’ Not much, actually, looking back,

made my considered choice, revealed a square,

exposed Roy Walker and Mr Chips crowing there.

Thickets

 

Thickets

 

 

There’s no shortage of degenerative growth

every morning - taking a reassuring swallow

of agreeably bitter coffee, thick on the throat,

draining a mug to fill the hollows.

On brambled trees, deep throaty chokes

of wood pigeons, birdbrains all, but he’s low –

a baritone east of bass, what he knows

he surely rumbles to tendrils tugging fences –

ineffectual barriers; last lines of defences.

 

They could only keep electricity switched on

haphazardly, Coker, Masen and the rest,

some hazard Wyndam drafted in to advance tension

and the Triffids, ramming barricades, were blessed

with a primal intelligence such vegetation

must surely have, an urge to usurp what was left –

and there was a sickness that flew the night,

linked to circumnavigating, artificial satellites

ringing lines of latitude like necks; burning bright.

 

There’s a beauty deep in those woods

beyond pickets, dark sung songs for everyone

composed carelessly from indifferent thickets - should

mean something, but don’t. Yesterday, spending long

hours scrubbing dust, carpets thick with floods

of undisturbed mites, she’s calling from beyond:

We must go home, dear, where you and I belong.

And, on the orders of some listless general

another child lies injured by the falling shrapnel.

Cumberbatch

 

Cumberbatch

 

 

‘Where’s your England shirt?’ I asked the Grandson,

14, young, strong, doesn’t have one –

so, I told him, ‘try one of mine for size’,

nothing doing there – ‘too big, too old’ - he cries,

wiser eyes than mine on the bigger prize.

 

I’d picked a Beckham, 7, from some tournament, long lost -

maybe from that time we’d tossed

pairs of plastic St George daubed hand clappers at the big screen,

got thrown out, banned forthwith, watched dreams

sail on, sail on down the line, Rooney’s off, Ronaldo winks,

the whole reel reeks, your heart sinks.

 

Half an hour until Sports Direct shuts tonight

2 hours until kick off, haring down Pydar Street,

that’s him and me – he picks a blue top,

they’re all out of white, red – none in stock –

you notice she doesn’t say, ‘due to popular demand’,

or some other cliché – still, he’s looking grand

in medium and, as I pay, I feel I should say

to her, ‘he should be prepared for decades of pain,’

but puts me in my place,

with her quiet titter, ‘I don’t own one.’

 

BBC1, we’ve switched it on,

I played ‘3 Lions’, ‘World in Motion’ - New Order - 12 inch,

what else? Done the Age UK nostalgia tour, put drinks,

your heart sinks, Chapman, Shearer, Mowbray –

quips about Lineker, cut and pasting poor taste – all they say

is guaranteed to court disaster and the best saved for last,

ill-informed public chestnuts then your very own Cumberbatch.

 

He’s a silhouette, throwing shade, rocking ‘With the Beatles’,

almost black and white, but not quite, nearly regal:

‘Seize,’ says he, ‘The Day! You lions!’ or some such crap,

that tumbles like clowns, pratfalls into your lap - that’s that.

 

Yesterday, I bought him his first England shirt,

then, when sleep flirted from behind her skirts,

stared at the ceiling, pondering a world of hurt.

 

Tonight Tonight Tonight

 Tonight Tonight Tonight

Let’s all get up and dance to a song

that was a hit – there’s fragments of it,

shake yourself from an afternoon kip –

let slip slumber, lose any grip

of internal worlds you’d unspooled and projected.

It’s half of two, give or take –

day of a big game - well they’re all big, this late

on in tournaments, England Norway -

He would’ve loved that, found a pub somewhere,

wittered on about live atmospheres,

Erling Haaland – you don’t get much more

corporeal than him – certain to score –

press sharpening knives, watch how he skives

on the park, but, boy, he’s sharp.

Find yourself in town, wandered down

from Angel Towers - some excuse about potatoes,

sun’s a thieving crook, gone and took

what water he can squeeze from your sponge –

and although you mostly avoid pubs

you still hang on to the Con Club –

paying annual subs

for a final bolt-hole that could prove handy -

nip inside order ice-cool shandy.

Maybe you’re halfway through

when you’re recognised –

hailed with a ruck of a shout, a hearty maul,

but you don’t remember his face at all,

later, when he’s off for a slash

you make a quick pass at boy bartender,

confess you can’t remember

who the hell he is – but didn’t you hide it well?

Jason’s back, now you’re in the know –

recalling how we used to go

with Chris … remember Old Trafford, England game,

we had more than a few, him, me, you,

he bought his lad – no, no, that was my boy –

was it? You fell down the steps,

well, we was all fucking wrecked,

twenty years back along, Steve McClaren, Rooney,

and City, lifting the Vase at Wembley -

choker about Chris – let’s not go there –

no, no, you’re right, shit, one day, he’s just gone –

I know – passed on, it’s just bloody wrong,

isn’t it? It was, like – let’s not bring it all back,

he was my best friend, come on,

I’ll put one in, have another one…

You make your escape,

but City have got Exeter, Saturday next, pre-season

friendly, well, there’s another reason

to hang on, you guess,

agree to catch up in the bar, bring the Grandson,

because we all belong

to some sort of football family.

And if he could brush ashes from his eyes,

wake up from an afternoon kip,

wonder what he’d make of it?