Darning Socks

Clouds on the horizon. 

Clouds, smoky and grey, pre-empting the passing season - sandal-free days. 

So I spend my afternoon darning socks.

There must be something remarkable in the angle of my toenails for no matter how short I clip them, they are inclined to devastate the yarn above.

They are the Big Toes that create the greatest destruction, incising against the inside of the toecaps of my boots, shredding the thread, fracturing the fabric. Now, the next time the socks are worn they must be slipped each on the other foot, so the holes hover each above the middle toe, Toe Three. Meanwhile, Big Toes set to work again, feasting anew on virgin textile. And come nightfall, as I toe-heel out of my loafers, there are now two pale planets of nail and flesh luminous against a dark woollen skyscape.

'Buy New,' she says, 'for Life is Too Short to spend hours darning holes in such insignificant garments. Buy New!'

But how can I reject my knee-high Prince of Wales plaid?

How can I desert my 'World's Best Dad'? An ankle-borne motto from a time when I was not so worn out by work.

What would I do without the Weekday Run-through – the circling calendar slipping unseen into my shoe? Monday Blue through to Lemon Yellow Sunday.

And these, my wedding socks, black silk softness, will I divorce from them so easily?  Should I slip them along my soles, though now crumpled and ill-fitting, stretched because the size I bought was just a little too short?

Can I render them up? Can I tender them in exchange for something fashionably new? Or should I darn and sew, the way I know how to? Darn and sew, mend and make do.

Me reading 'Darning Socks'...

A Graveside Kiss

Lilies

     dense and white

     and speckled orange

     soft-stemmed funnels of sorrow

     bundled within a polythene sleeve

lie

     on the mound of churned earth

     that will cover her coffin

we

     thumb paper tissues

     into our palms

     sidle together

     our heads at forty five

     though a more subtle angle

     between your body and mine

     for we are inclined to weep

we each

     lean on the other's arm

     our soft palates each clamped

     against the grief

     tongues tying the tragedy tight

but here

     amongst the cannas and tigers

     a bumble bee

     fumbles one by one into the flower cones

     re-emerges after a moment

     reversing from each powdery trumpet

     pollen like polenta

     dusting its busby black and belisha fur

then

     its forage complete

     now all sweetness is gone

     it rises against the breeze

     and flies close

     between your shoulder

     and your ear

you

     flinch

     and shudder

     as the wing-disturbed air

     broaches your neck

     an intimate breath

     a whispered kiss

     at the graveside

H-Bomb

I climb the corner

from Valley into Upper Valley Road

the licorice evening

cat-curling round my feet

young boy

ten

walking towards me

drops an H-bomb

as he passes

I stutter my surprise

but then

remembering

its sometimes

good to connect

return the greeting

Hello

I say

back

jockey shorts

In an attempt
to drive
his taunting teenaged son
from his bedroom
as he tries to prepare for bed
the father strips

completely

naked

to the blue thread veins

that run across his chest
to the varicose vessels
that meander
from his groin
and delta down his inner thigh

the lad jeers
cheerily

at the whiteness
of the pallid skin
stretched shining
over the ridges of the shins

scoffs

at the loose-toned buttocks

revealed

as shapeless

jockey shorts

are thumbed down from the hips

complains
as a curtain of pendulous stomach

undulates in

a galloping adipose syncopation

but is silenced

as the father's flaccid weapon

larger than his own

claims victory

over the moment

the father

ignores the abuse

chooses to centre himself

in his thoughts

tosses the shorts

to the dirty linen basket

shakes creases

from folded pyjamas

stored beneath the pillow

ties a double bow

in the thick white cord

to ward against

further

more physical

attack

but

eventually

the lad grows up

and

sees that

he is
now the one
who strips to the white bone

before sleeping

contemplates

a ruined temple

as he yearns

for some more sensuous

corporeal sensation

Terrifying

Another piece from an Electric Tomatoes session - this was the first warm up exercise and the prompt was 'terrifying'....

Not there. Not like that.
Like what?
Not like that.  Have you done this before? Get your arm underneath.
It is, it is.
No, all the way round. Take the weight, take the weight.
I don't think I can.
Yes you can. Don't be daft. But perhaps first sit down. She wants to feel held.
Where? Here on the chair?
No, on the sofa, sit there. Take her onto your lap. Then I'll take a snap.
What over here? Shall I sit over here?
Now put out your hands. Put one here and one here. No, under her bum. Just there. Just like that.
Oh I see.  Right, okay.
Now pull her in close. Right into your chest.
Like this.

Like that. You'll soon get the hang, but don't let her head just wobble about.  Hold her tight – and relax. Just breathe – and relax.



Answers on a postcard as to what exactly is going on...