Lucy laughs at Marek

At the foot of

Shirebrook Road

two ten year old girls sit

on the steps of the house

that once used to be the old

Mini Motorparts Shop

they watch a boy

dancing bad parcour

around the yellow

municipal grit bin

girl two is giggling

at the boys looping

tumbles

girl one says

ok Marek

you made Lucy laugh

you made Lucy laugh

but you’ll never make me laugh

Marek

you’ll never make me laugh

Lucy in her

leopard skin dress

continues her giggle

and Marek continues

his dance

the almond blossom tattoo

today

for the first time

you have shown me your new 

tattoo

the one of the branch of almond blossom

the one on your lower abdomen

the showing of which

requires the removal of 

clothing

using only your left hand

you slip

your cotton t-shirt

over your head

in one deft movement

and as you do so

lift your right hand

to cover your left nipple

the forearm crossing the body

thus to simultaneously conceal

both the naked breasts

you have done this before

and perform the act without thinking

small wrinkles appear 

in the puckering skin

pointing

towards the concealed 

nipple

your left breast

is slightly distorted

by the pulling action

my mind

is slightly distorted

by the distraction

the almond blossom tattoo

of which you are rightly proud

snakes from a point

within the inner sanctum of your groin

to the left hand-side

around your hip

and up your back

to end in sprays

just below your

armpit

and upon your shoulder blade

pure blossom and

dark piercing twigs

fingers of grief

reaching across the 

fatal field of your flesh

inked lines

in low relief

deeply 

permanently defined

and while you show me

you continue to hold your fingertips

over the warm 

rose of  your nipple

in order to maintain

your modesty

I hear from you 

of a journey of longing

you tell me of

sleepless nights

your own hands

stroking your intimate skin

wondering

deciding

worrying

fingertips

tracing designs

in imagined Japanese lines

you take me with you

to a place

of desperate defiance

between you

and your troubled parents

I echo

your trepidation

on the tattooist’s couch

and I too

fear the buzzing pain

you have suffered

to carry this image

as she drives her needles into you

relief

as she finishes her flourish

elation

at first sight

you consume me

in the intimacy

and the ecstasy

of your endeavour

but rest assured 

I cannot see 

your nipple

Reflection

I am doing

this evening's dishes

wishing grease

from plates

my wife's insisting

on rinsing

singing in my ears

I am distracted

as I hear

the ghost

of our cat

jump from table to floor

in the dining room

I look up to see

my reflection

looking back at me

my other's eyes

shining in the glass

through spectacle lenses

his hands

mine

wrist-deep

in suds

and then beyond

across the yard

the neighbour’s kitchen window

throws back a second image

a more distant double

visible

through

this first

more eyes

peering

for a moment

we are

studying

ourself

twice

if I were able

I would mould the moment

into a metaphysical metaphor

a quizzical exploration

of identity and perspective

a dark seeing through glass

as it is

all it is

is me

washing up

looking at me

washing up

looking at me

washing up

Dictaphone

I couldn’t keep up with the lectures.

I wondered if a Dictaphone would help.

When I phoned home I said to Dad – Dad, I can’t keep up with the lectures. I think a Dictaphone would help.

He said, I’ve got an old Dictaphone I don’t use, would you like it?

I said, Oh wow! yes, of course, that would be great!

I’ll post it to you, he said.

A few days later it arrived in the post.  It was a small micro cassette Dictaphone with a small microcassette already in the cavity where the microcassettes fit.  There was a note in with the Dictaphone which simply read:  “Press Play. Dad”

I pressed play.

Dad’s voice came out of the tinny speaker.  He told this long rambling joke about a farmer who no longer liked the tractor he had bought for some reason or other and so he was an Ex Tractor Fan, or something.  It wasn’t a very good joke - you could tell what the punch line was going to be very early on. But it was good to hear Dad’s voice.  I listened to it several times.  I love you, he said at the end.

He died ten years later.  A sudden heart attack.  He was unbelievably out there in the blue, floating around with no warning.

A few weeks after the funeral, I moved flats in Hull. Packing boxes, I found the Dictaphone.  The microcassette was still in the cavity where the microcassettes go.  I remembered Dad’s Ex Tractor Fan joke.

The battery had leaked so I replaced it and pressed play but all I could find was a muffled lecture on Shakespeare and the Traditions of Comedy.

On Sunday Afternoon

I have turned on the oven

and if you have no plans for them

I will take the Bramley apples

which have been sitting

in the fruit bowl

for three weeks now

and I will wash them

under a running tap.

I will peel them and remove their cores

and cut them into regular cubes

or at least

into random chunks of

approximately

the same size

I will place these cubes

or chunks

into the large brown crockery casserole

that you bought from that Antiques Shop

in Kirkby Stephen

while we were on that walk from Crosby Garrett,

you remember,

when the children were little,

the one where we

also bought

the large flat soup dishes

that are now all broken.

(You didn’t buy that there?

oh

well at least you are aware

of the one to which I refer.)

I will sprinkle dark brown sugar

and a little spice all over the

apples although I will not

measure

the sugar

and there will always be

a faint unknowing

as to whether the

finished dish

will be deliciously sweet

or religiously sharp.

I have a sense of it

though

and a certain amount of experience

and besides

I enjoy the risk

- like the heat of chillies.

In another bowl I will rub

ounces of

butter

into twice as many

ounces of

plain flour

I will add as many

ounces of

demarara sugar

as I have added of butter

and a similar

amount

of the large rolled oats

that we both like.

This topping

I will sprinkle on to the apples

and pat down lightly

running the back of a fork over it

to create small furrows

so that the finished dish

will resemble

a ploughed field.

I will then place 

the completed crumble

into the oven

which I have preheated.

Gas Mark 4

It is in the oven

that the magic will happen

and after about forty minutes

(during which time I will

clear the surfaces

and

wash the bowls and utensils

I have used)

I will

take it out

and check the look of it

and the aroma of it

and the texture of the crumble topping

for signs of perfection.

A little lava-like

outflowing of

the bubbling sweet apple juices

onto the ridged and crusty surface

may not be a bad thing.

If all these signs are right

I will stand the crumble

in its brown crockery casserole

on the pot-stand by the kettle

to rest a moment

while I quickly make some

custard.

Not an elaborate real custard

but a simple one

made from the

Bird’s Custard Powder

we keep in the cellar head

with perhaps a teaspoon full of

Madagascan vanilla extract

and a small pot of that

thick double cream

that you insist on.

The crumble

I will then spoon into bowls

one for you

and one for me and

the custard

I will tip into a jug

and, with the small headed ladle,

and a couple of dessert spoons,

I will bring them

in to you

in the sitting room

while you sit and

watch

the Antiques Roadshow

where you discover

that

the large flat soup dishes

which are now all broken

would have been worth about

ten times what we paid for them

were we never to have used them

and then 

felt the need 

to sell them.

Your disappointment is short-lived

however

as you taste

the Bramley apples,

sweetened and spiced to perfection,

under the crumble topping,

crunchy but not too hard,

golden brown and yet not too brown

with a slight caramelisation of apple juices

baked on around the crumble edge

and the three ladlefuls of rich sweet custard

albeit only Birds

that cover the contents of your bowl

and ensure that it is

a delightful

and delicious

remedy

on Sunday Afternoon

Anyway

Anyway

Young Yorkshire mum

with two young sons

walking up

Upper Valley Road

I’m in behind her

admiring her

South Riding

two undulating hills

in pure grassgreen

brushed cotton

that needs smoothing

I’m thinking

but I don’t…

Does my bum look big in this?

I’m remembering from the TV show

and I’m silently answering

Yes

but in a really good way.

Anyway

Son One is up ahead

testing out his leadership skills

knowing the way

Number Two a good bit younger

is hanging back and

has just hit whine mode

Anyway

she sounds pretty

patient with him

cooing and cajoling

but he’s climbing the whine gears

with indistinct complaining

and with each rising note

you can hear her

jaw clenching and

her teeth gritting.

Anyway

eventually

he hits High ‘Me’

and finally her fury

bursts buttons on her blouse

like popping candy

and she Yorkshire yells

“What, Timiteo?!

Anyway

we’ve got to go shopping!”

Confession

So, Nuala

Can I tell you now this secret?

I knew your mother

once

a life ago

more than once

and many times

I held her

and she held me

in ways you may discover

but she distressed me with her

distance and her constancy

while I destroyed us in

another’s arms

but in all the years that have since

flowed over me

I only have regretted

what I did

and I have never repeated

that particular travesty

so when you see your mother next

please tell her this

that although I cannot say I love her now –

that would be ludicrous –

I carry still the burden

of my clumsiness

and wish

that time could turn again

and I would do things differently –

we may not even

stay the course

a second time

but I would be more honest and

courageous

and should our loving of each other

cease

a second time

then I would seek to find a

more respectful

way to leave



Chris reading Confession

Dragon in the City

She looks to nest

in the trees above the park

and waits till sunrise gilds

her scaly breast
then spreads her wings

to catch the dewy air –

her gulping flight to

breakfast on the green.

But there is flummox in the folk

that stare below

they bring stones and sticks

and washing props and rakes

and fling them high to

break her from the sky

reckless of her safety

and their own.

But sweeping all their

brutish jibes aside

she saddles once again

the florid air

and rides the gathering thermals to the sky

until these ants below have slaked their fear.

And she, now

grey with age,

flees once more

to the lonely

place where she can live in peace

the mists of myth.

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