Month: August 2020
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Not Remembering
I don’t recall him being born, my son. Not enough, anyway. I remember scenes from the day: the blood; the unexpected bright colours of things that came out in the amniotic fluid; the hospital smells; the echoes; and the dawn, the brightness of the early morning sunlight. I remember his surprising black hair and scrunched…
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A Sketch At The Shops
When he hit me The first thing I thought was this: ‘Don’t break the bottle’. He was young, stocky, perhaps a boxer, wearing one of those godawful snapback baseball caps and a padded jacket. Someone had spat at my feet, and I grabbed him, and then someone grabbed me, a good strong lock around my…
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The Little People
Raking leaves, the little man hums hymns to him, alone. His little wife, washing pans, watches what she owns. They can speak by sense of touch, their kisses make no spittle. Neither needs or wants too much, what they have is little. Two lives made of little things, made smaller by themselves. Thursday morning shopping…
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Swallows Are Leaving
Swallows Are Leaving Swallows are leaving Following the warm winds south Summer is dying
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A Working Day
His day starts before light. He wakes early, moves quietly, eats quickly and leaves the house, belly full but feeling empty, body still aching from the day before. Two buses to get there, dirty bright vehicles filled with silent hopeless people just like him. Clocking in, proving that he is here, now, that he exists,…
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All I Need To See
The view from the window: dirty mean streets, brick and concrete, blocks of buildings, filled with people as mean and dirty as the streets. This urban profanity of a place, untidy and unkempt and uncared for, unloved by many, but most of all by me, I hate it more than I can say. Give me…
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An English Garden
Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun. Here it comes, and here come all the sun lovers: meadow brown and orange tip, cabbage white, red admiral and peacock, and a fleeting sight of the uncommon common blue. Honey bees and hover flies busy by with other flies I could not name or can’t…
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A Walk In The Park
A walk in the park. Municipal green space, there for all to share. Somewhere to rest, to play, a grassy mattress on which to lay and daydream, or just to sit, not think of it, whatever it might be. Somewhere out of the house, away from the cares that are there everywhere, somewhere open, somewhere…
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Writing Me Up 