I took them home and planted them and thought of you.

They will grow and flower and give grace and joy

They will bring pleasure for such a short time before the sun and nature wither them too.

And so did you.

gardenias

Locked inside his own little world,

Walking off in the wrong direction,bumping into the furniture, he forgot to kick the football- or did he even see it?

Something’s not right, we say.

No smiles at the gifts we buy.

Repeats what I say- no meaning there.

The smile goes only so far.

Hello? Hello? Will you let mama in?

The autistic boy.

Children screamed , worlds collided

Four seconds of joy.

New teacher, bespectacled and Shakespearean arrives, delighting me with his gentleness and knowledge.

Would you like to read my poetry, he said.

Sitting in the loos before Geography exam, didn’t care about maps and isobars,

One line stood out, your side of the bed is cold.

Was there hope for me, 16 years old? Was he trying to tell me something?

Would he leave his wife?

Surely he didn’t love her, that was obvious- her side of the bed was cold.

Oh the dreams of youth……………how high we fly and how crashingly fast we fall.

He’s the headmaster now and I am old and married, but my bed is warm.

She got up as usual and did the dusting, washed the floors, put the slow cooker on with the stew,

Tuesdays were always stew.

Finished the ironing and paid the milkman.

Then she took a number 54 bus to the centre of town and had a cup of tea.

She carried one case and in it was the soul of thirty years complaining and dreaming and wondering what it would be like to go.

So she went.

Now she is waiting and looking at her watch.

Time to lay the table.

Used to wake me all the time when it didn’t matter-

Now when it should

I can’t hear it;

It breaks the darkness of morning ,

It tells you that the time has come

But you want a few moments more.

Throughout the land people are rising from their beds

With the same shameful desire

More sleep……………..

you

us

them

ours

theirs

mine

yours

Because we are

Because we can

I tripped over a stone someone had put there

Eighteen years ago

When I, much younger then, mistook  for a bad dream I had to escape.

If I pick it up and put it in my pocket

Will it weigh me down or sit for a while unhindering as a reminder of what might have been?

Walking down Memory Lane

I tripped over a stone someone had put there to trip me up

Eighteen years ago, today

you can’t write with a broken pencil

you can’t eat your chips with a spoon

your shoes are on the wrong feet, you can’t walk that way, you’ll fall

put it back, it’s too expensive

your hair needs brushed, have you washed your face ?

be careful, the water’s hot

eat your breakfast , you’ll be late for school,

don’t walk on the road, put your jacket on,

do it yourself, you’re old enough

But you can’t fly with broken wings

Somewhere off the M25 covering my ears and eyes and hiding the smoggy dust of daytime dreary downness,

Overly apologetic colleagues who have stolen your teabags and other such unimportant drivel.

I fall asleep.

Wake up with a start and remember that I may have just died or left my body apparently for some nautical astral projection myth.

Water cold.

Turn on the tap.

Sip my pepsi, cover the flesh with bubbles again.

Why did I leave the towel over there?

Light a fag and breathe in the wickedness of the undiscovered puff.

Bathtime, in my opinion.