A shadow in water.

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.
Jigsaw pieces.

See-through slice of pig.
This veil.

Mottled shadows of leaves.
This is theatre.

She always kneed the glass door open,

until it was briery bloody edged.

 

Lake shivers.
You blow on a cup of tea

Distant galaxies.
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.

Love you.

King.

*******

( Queenie to Canal)

Alright Cocker,

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,

Queenie

PS Mrs Higginbottom’s cats had twins yesterday.

*******

(Canal to High)
Hi High,
I know your the main
thoroughfare, like,

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”.
No Trespassing,
Canal.

*******

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.

High

()

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear A,

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,

Z.

PS Can’t miss grandkids charity dance tonight.