then

      then

one day summer

   then

one day autumn

                           never 

were such days

so similar in their 

indifference

to the passing of 

our time

   here 

take a look 

what do you see

coming and going

your way           then

try to stop it just

  there 

grammar school in the 1960s

 grammar school in the 1960s

dull cloth blazer

not the shiny sort

  me

calling our dining room the kitchen

during a french lesson

  me

crickets nets?

fives courts?

what is confidence?

why is everyone so tall? 

and religion in the hall

and readings in the chapel

sunday school

  me

the man under the gymnasium 

in the workshop

mending desks

with his white apron stained

fishy wood glue

desk lids inked with the past

boys 

why is there a girls entrance 

in a boys only school?

fights in the yard 

gowned chalk-smooth masters 

pulling ears into detention 

or the cane 

when the headmaster’s light turned green 

and in you went 

and out you came 

tight lipped in shame

like when you walked the rows of desks

after the slipper was applied

pride tight lipped 

beside the misted windows

hands gripping the thick radiator 

silvered by time’s boring brush 

  me

did we fit in?

with the other classes 

in the other form rooms

housemaster as foreign a concept

at the dark side of the moon

  me

in the stone-dumb edifice standing

room only for tradition is

the well-trodden paths

the glittering prizes

no surprises 

  me

getting by

and bye and bye

goodbye

another path running into the sand

the fanned breezes of childhood

closing back into a shellac stick

the promises that were displayed 

like a peacock

ill timed peradventure 

perhaps not

  me

the warm sun on the back

of a retreating blazer

school badge threadbare 

cap gone missing long ago

short trousers now as long as

the lonely walk of failure

it was as implicit as the golden boys

shining in their new dawns

the moonlight pale

  me

on my way

to nowhere in particular 

post particular 

grammatically incorrect 

my word

oh my word

  me?

it is late

 it is late

way way back

before yesterday

tomorrow was glad to arrive

and another tomorrow 

arriving like busses

  now 

tomorrow is yesterday’s thought

waiting in a queue at the bus stop

for the last bus home

it is late

a snail ate my iPhone

a snail ate my iPhone

a snail ate my iPhone

  at

the apocalypse of the alcopops 

  it

was a hologram 

  in

green red glasses

  that 

sped into four dimensions

  said

see you later alligator

  ~

in a while said the snail

  when

trying to update the download

  to

upload a new update

  to

my iPhone i 

  said

a snail ate my iPhone

  did

i tell you that

 

dis-approbation

 many a time it is said

when perhaps it aught not

many a time it remains unsaid

which should have been said

how were we to know

at the time it seemed appropriate 

how were we to know what you know

now

where the cobwebs were

tell me that

or don’t

approbate 

summer into autumn

 summer into autumn

so now the fungi come

through the dew-damp mornings

the haze

the ways in which summer says

to the lavender bees

hurry hurry

now

see how the golden days

are yellow browning at the edges

falling 

almost in the no breeze

mellowing in long-drawn breaths

long-shadowed dawns

dew-damp lawns

the garden spiders’ webs

dream catchers failing

to see the russets

do you 

see the russets of your changing mind

the windfall thoughts

the sugar creamed tarts

the loaded jam shelves

ahhhhh

is all that can be said 

of what has been 

is now the time 

for snoozes

see how the cat moults one more time 

before the woolly jumpers and the coats

are brought out of the camphor drobes

the harvests of butterfly dust twitching

in just once more settling in the breeze

laying low through the stubble

the hint of a grass fire in the making

of an evening

see

do you see now

how this is all a watercolour 

along the lines of every time 

you cannot resist one last touch

one last stained blackberry

one last petal held to a nose

for it is changing

oh yes 

now that you mention it

i can see it

and there is nothing to be done

but to watch the savour

fade away with you now

for it is getting dark

and nights are drawing in

home shopping in the 1950s

 home shopping in the 1950s

the bread man

  the fish man

the pop man

  the coal man

the oil man

  the fruit and veg man

the milk man

  the icecream man

the newspaper man

all across a well washed doorstep

when one day

 

when one day

when one day they say of me

he has gone and died he has

suddenly oh so suddenly

and they say of me he was

a miserable git

a waste of space

so glad he’s gone that’s it that’s it

no more this stage he’ll grace

never liked the chap at all

talked like he owned the place

of all the ones who deserved to fall

he deserved to lose the race

he’ll not be missed

he had all his life behind him

had a good innings they hissed

jim the swim they called him

now he’s drowned under 

disapprobation

all memories disowned 

at this his final station

goodbye they cheered

take all your pebble poems

black and white and salt veneered 

and stick them up your …

cough cough ~ ahem ~ ahem

before Sunday school in the 1950s

  tuppeny dab

a chocolate dab

a dab of childhood luck

floating yes please the melody

from the Sundae icecream truck

casscerini’s

grammar school ~ english literature

 grammar school ~ english literature 

‘read them out loud’ he said

we called him ‘Gunner’

he taught us how to swear ‘properly’

the intonations on the word ‘bastard’

‘bãstārd’ being the insult

‘bástard’ the illegitimate

he said

read Tennyson’s ‘break, break, break’

the tears

shared between the poem and

dear ‘Gunner’

every bloody Sinday

 every bloody Sinday 

as dull as a Welsh Sunday

in the rain

pubs shut

chapels open

the winding gear

of the pits

lost in the mist 

following the slag tips

to heaven help us 

now

as the clouds lower

even more seems impossible 

every mote

every Sunday

every bloody Sinday 

the signal box

 the signal box

the signal box

it is in the 1960s mind you

see the shiny levers with their release handles

the mutton cloth handed caress

the colours denoting things

a child could only imagine

the hard black and white levers that pulled the points

too hard for a child’s wince even with the counterweights

in the basement of the box where the battery jars fizzed

look 

a phone straight out of a Wells Fargo western

spin the handle and talk into the spout

earpiece at the end of a platted wire 

jing jing jing 

the coded call to another box on another line

the wood there also shining to the hands of time

jing jing jing 

the tombola box of winking eyes

some white some red

again reminded a boy of what was still unknown

as important a signal as was ever pulled in this box

where the signal man is sitting to a cuppa chair 

everything shining of time 

looking back now it is shrouded in the mist of a winsome cello

straddled by an old man’s knees 

he sees the young boy’s knees

that ran the stairs and walked the railing where

the key to the single line was handed to the train driver

and the thought handed to the boy to keep in the leather purse 

deep in the recesses of a mind closing around that time

and of course the map that ran the length of the signal box wall

the signal lights flickering all the way from here to Timbuktu 

a real time machine to a local boy at the edge of his territory 

and daring do

oh yes he had climbed the signal posts

looked at the wick flickering red

watched the signal drop to green the points slide irretrievably clang

jumpin to the conclusions from many days chatting

to the signal box man

in his signal box

by his coal fire

with his cup of tea

and me

the levers shinning in my mind pulling this day 

the mutton cloth of many colours strung loose

over the oiling of memories until

the red signal falls

a poem about a seagull hit by a car

a poem about a seagull hit by a car

its dead now i suppose

that seagull in juvenile garb 

dragging its flappiness across the road

hit by a car i suppose

it seemed nonplussed 

that it could not fly

its eyes said nothing but

what i read into them

i avoided the coup de grace

steered the disapprobation 

of the drivers behind 

although my calculation

regarding prognosis was accurate

eventually it was hit and flattened i guess

an odd feather headdress announcing 

its departure into the tarmac

what a strange sequence of thoughts

over the distance of my passing from it

and the curtains of perspective 

closing it all down in my mind 

road sweeping must be a jammy job

bloody black humour suggested

the rains wash the roads into the ocean

they say

the micro sea beasties like blood

the fish like the micro beasties 

the seagulls like the fishies

and shit them all over the road

until one day 

bang!

all over the road

cloaca is funny bird word

don’t you think

wild strawberries

 wild 

       strawberries

the tiny fruit hidden in the hedgerows

that crush between my fingers and release

  and release

the very scent of every summer in a lifetime of moons

of milk late grasses the creamy sap of dandelions

crushed around a tartan picnic rug of dozing

wind 

        falls

that apple tart the white tablecloths of evenings 

as still as the breeze is easy upon the trees 

  that release 

the honey dew as sweet and as sticky as every invitation

for rain on the morrow of the herbaceous borders 

the flying-ant-dust paths and the drooping flowers

wait-

       -ing

for the downward flies upon the water’s dust

on the slack pools where trout are on the take

bagged heavy to supper embers remembering

  when released

the little ‘uns that arrowed up the barley stream

twisting the sunlight beyond redemption

beyond the wet returning steps of childhood 

and here

  we are 

upon the azure curling smoke off mounds of burning leaves

or the warm white breath oozing from their turning

and the yearning ahead as summer pats her petticoats 

  blushing a little

spring and autumn look the other way

crinoline a garden spider’s web-caught-stitch glistens

as we ask   are you crying

are you  ~  oh please don’t 

what is the length of a shadow when the moon has set

 what is the length of a shadow when the moon has set

does it stay where it ended or recoil

or lie in wait for the next rise of the emotive

or was it never there but simply a space

where the moonshine was not

although you were there were you not

upon the thought of a moonbeam in the darkness

of a tiptoe along a line of thought

Alas

 Alas 

Where is Noah when you need him most?

Where do the ark trees grow now the trees are burnt?

Where is the furnace emergency stop?

Will the two by twos be three or one?

Will the gender decisions stack the cards?

Will the iced drinks boil?

Who will decide the destination?

Who will decide the place?

Who will decide for the human race?

Are the bells tolling or warning?

Are the grave diggers crying themselves?

Are the sextons no longer ringing?

For the toll of death is ash

For the ash is drowned and slurry

For the long days are short indeed

Now rest assured is history

Now rest my mind disarray 

Now rest is no longer needed

It is time for the final say

It is time for the final say

It is time for dismay to say

Alas it was once

Alas it is no more

Alas it will never be

Again alas no more

Alas again

No more

Alas 

No more