A tracery of leaf.
This is bone.
A tracery of leaf.
This is bone.
of the summer sky,
herded by shepherd gusts,
whistles and calls.
slow ripples on a lake.
Clouds: sky’s decision
to close the shutters,
bring down the blinds,
pull the curtains.
Deep red gorge with white river.
Her knee cut down to bone.
Black and white dairy cows.
See-through slice of pig.
Mottled shadows of leaves.
This is theatre.
She always kneed the glass door open,
until it was briery bloody edged.
You blow on a cup of tea
Rain on tarmac.
Green clouds billow.
They are trees.
White trees shake their leaves.
They are clouds.
Aye up, Queenie
They’ve pushed a tube
through my innards
and chucked water down it
to clear my backed up waterworks.
Heard the gurgling from 67
to 106. Mrs Heavenly
stopped pegging out
her washing to hear it,
and scarpered in holding up
her petticoat. Moments
later I heard the flush.
Blackbirds on my ridge tiles
are copying ringtones, again.
Young lad at 23 kept answering
his. His mates pissing themselves
as they supped cans in his backyard.
Heard from High your 69
had front door splintered
in drugs police raid. You’ve
often said you get high
on the fumes from that.
Might get your Victorian
terraces renovated then
you’ll be up and coming
my love. Regenerated.
( Queenie to Canal)
Wish they’d dig your bottom
out so you could be posh.
Have water sidling past
your windows, and boats
moored at your side.
And in summer, perfume of sweet
waters, full of dragon and damsel
would drift down my road.
And all my windows would open.
Keep your pavement clean,
PS Mrs Higginbottom’s cats had twins yesterday.
(Canal to High)
I know your the main
and been here yonks.
Right from when it were
a village, and you just
had fields for company.
Back when it were two sheep
and a goat and lots of sheds.
How d’ya get used
to your buildings being demolished?
Change, change, change. No
sooner do you get a new shop,
it closes ‘cos of austerity. Your
Town Hall is now a pub called “The Town Hall”.
HIGH’S NOTICE TO ALL STREETS
I hear some concern about change.
We’re no longer covered in grime,
the fields no longer dry flax,
the heat of the bottle maker’s
does not warm our insides. Streets
have been knocked down, but,
we are still the same basic shape.
Even more estates are being built,
so we grow. New industry will come,
and go. Folk want genuine, independent
shops, not chains. Let us
accept this as inevitable.
Times of grief often usher
times of great change afterwards.
Let us take the blows, then, fill
in the potholes, remortar the bricks,
resurface the road, rebuild the walls.
Beware of the dog.
Dust everywhere, since builders
elected to leave. Fetched dustpan
and brush. They say they clean up
afterwards but surfaces are covered.
I’ll be wiping them for weeks. Major
restructure always causes grief. You
pick yourself up. Look at the mess.
Heave a sigh and begin scrub
and polish. Find places where they
failed to fill in the holes, or left
jobs half completed. Of course it’ll
not be easy, but we decided to employ
them when lads in the village didn’t
want to get their hands dirty, because
they thought they were above such things.
G’s funeral was a quiet affair. Rain
kept off for once. Red, white and blue
roses from the Polish deli. Bless.
Zest for life,
PS Can’t miss grandkids charity dance tonight.
I wrote two letters to you Z. just in case.
Sad news. It was hoped G
would rally under the new
treatment. It was hoped the light
would glimmer in her eyes
once more like two stars. It was hoped
I would not stand by her graveside,
delicately lay her favourite flowers
on the cold grey stone. Her son
says he will never wear his Union
Jack suit again. He says “It’s betrayed
him.” He did not want to be independent
of his mam. She was his certainty.
The rains have started again. We have
a loose tile. H says it is a faulty baffle.
The Polish deli sent flowers
and a get well card. Nicely done.
PS Gonna slap that bloke with wheelbarrow coffin silly. Knock the bastard into next week.
Dearest, dearest Z,
Blessings come few and rare. The new
treatment worked. She’s in remission.
Her son, the terrorist clown says
he has lot of stuff to work through
with her. Life is not going to be easy.
He says he betrayed her trust.
The rains have stopped. Thank Christ.
We can get replace the absent mortar between the bricks
and get the askew guttering
straightened out. Thank God G
is fine, if not G as in Great.
PS Seems wheelbarrow coffin bloke