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.