Coke

when

Eve visited

we sat alone

together

in the 

John Peel

Café sharing

cola from a tall

glass bottle on the

 red formica between us

she drew on her cigarette

and blew smoking bubbles

through the brown liquid

her coal black eyes

her lips smiling

round the straw

and smoke rising

http://www.coca-colacompany.com/history/
cbs-sunday-morning-how-coca-colas-bottle-got-its-shape

Cortege

This April sun

does nothing to warm the air.

Thursday morning and

a remnant of light frost

hunkers in the shadow of the churchyard wall

treacherously icing the flags.

His birthday

and his burial:

this father’s day

his funeral.

The charcoal car breathes

around noiseless corners;

within,

the creak of

crumpled tissues

thumbed in closed hands –

hands clinging to hands –

private thoughts etched on a public face;

moist inhalations;

the mild grinding of

Goodyears on gravel.

We hang powerless

in this enormous moment

that, yes, will pass

although we know not how –

while you sit at the window table

of King Alfred’s Kitchen

checking the menu

in the midmorning sun,

a teacake,

lightly buttered,

and a bright cup of tea.

And what you do,

I have done

and will do again.

But at this time

the black hole within me

sucks all meaning from the surrounding world

the impenetrable

event horizon

that freezes the senses

and strikes us all dumb.

You glance up to see the hearse in front

And I see you search

the rear windows of this

following cortege

looking for a face to recognise.

Our eyes momentarily meet

before you look back

to the menu card

and brush an uncomfortable crumb

from the lace cloth

spread before you.

How It Ends

Lyrics to a song I wrote a couple of years ago followed by a link to a rudimentary recording of it!

It started as promise

and ended as a curse.

Your presence was a comfort

now I just can’t get away.

Things seemed to be much better

but they’ve ended up much worse.

Your future held a secret

and you just wouldn’t say.

So is this how it ends?

Is this how it ends?

Can you break your silence?

Can I make amends?

Is this how it ends?

It’s ended as a nightmare

though it started as a dream.

You seemed to be a princess

but you were a tyrant queen.

Though it started as a whisper

it’s ended as a scream.

We were thirsty in the desert

till we found this poison stream.

So is this how it ends?

Is this how it ends?

Will you break your silence?

can I make amends?

Is this how it ends?

How it ends?

Can we still be lovers

When we’re not really friends?

Is this how it ends?

https://soundcloud.com/christopher-baldwin-5/how-it-ends-ed

In This Garden

In this garden

our parents surround us,

apple trees in June,

this custard sun

poured through dappled leaves

and here

are tennis ball catch games

among the dewy grass

and wet knees

one, then two,

as butter-fingered slips

make Broken Bottles of us children.

Bad Eggs

One, two, three then throw -

Stick in the Mud

and Off Ground Touch

We are Pirates between

summer’s laundered sheets

hung on rigging lines

or we are fleeing from Witches

finding refuge in the fuschia

Afternoons

are buddleia butterflied

are summer puddings

and Angel Delight,

while tea-drunk adults

sit on the daisy lawn

humbly chatting

through their children’s games.

Cousins race between

flowerbeds and cricket stumps

in rubber boots bound

from one to the next

as they grow into them

and then out.

The smallest child sirens panic

as a wasp takes it prisoner

droning at the nose and jammy mouth

while the child

backs helpless

towards a parent

There were sometimes,

but not now,

fox cubs in this garden

in the early evening quiet

safe among the walled flowers

snapping at pollen flies

like lizards

then toppling each other

into a frenzied ball

before freezing

in a heart-stopped moment,

attention taken

by some unseen threat.

I’d watch them from the window

and then,

days later,

find myself there

in the very spot

they had inhabited

still seeing their berry-black eyes

in froth-furred faces

and I’d hold my face close to the damp earth

and trace their scent

still lingering in the grass.

And from where I’m sitting now

I see

a blackbird feed its chick in the bay tree

and infant sparrows on the panel fence

chirring their wings

for their parents.

When I was twelve

I would map

every exact location

of every nesting bird

in this garden

and took my daily rounds

to inspect each nest

as if my knowing

would somehow

help.

I watched as fledglings

fledged

I swooped with worried laughter

to help the juvenile

who fluttered against the window pane

in desperate search

for some thing to perch

upon.

I watched for cats.

But it is getting late.

This midsummer sun is setting

and garden colours are

overlaid with dusky greys.

And they have gone who linked their arms

around us.

So now I in turn stretch

my hands to touch the sky

above my daughters’ heads

Stando!

Stick in the Mud,

teach them to catch,

to throw,

to hide,

to find

and count the spotted

ladybirds

as they climb

carapace open

and wings spread

to our fingers’ tips.

Getting The Message

Walking through town

lovely Claire says

Here, 

lend me a five p.

I fish one from my pocket

and hand it to her.

She takes it

then after a moment

aggressively

quickens her pace

leaving me in her wake.

Two yards ahead

she flings the coin

extravagantly

to the pavement

- the sound of metal

hitting concrete,

cold and brittle –

And that’s what I think of your ring!

she announces.

And strides off

leaving me

speechless and blushing

amongst

baffled and pitying

onlookers.