Slug and Chicken

So it was Paul Brake and me and Dom playing in the front garden and Eric Gowrie comes down the road. He doesn't live near our house, so he must have come specially.

Paul Brake and me and Dom are playing football across the garden even though the road is just there. But Dad's out.

“Hi,” says Eric Gowrie.

But Paul Brake doesn't look at him.

Eric Gowrie is from Singapore. He has shiny black hair that falls across his forehead like a curtain. His skin is like the colour of Toffoes.  He has pointed eyes.

“What?” says Paul Brake.

“How are you today?” says Eric Gowrie, really politely. He's talking to all of us but me and Dom know that Paul Brake has to answer.

Paul Brake doesn't know Eric Gowrie. Paul Brake doesn't know that me and Dom do know Eric Gowrie. Eric Gowrie goes to our Church. Yesterday at Mass, Father Macaffrey talked about love thy neighbour. Mr Seymour used to live next door to us. He was friendly and nice - but I didn't love him. Then he had his leg off. And then he died.

“What's it to you?” says Paul Brake.

Paul Brake is big. Me and Dom fit in behind him. Paul Brake is looking at the ground.

“Do you like slugs?” says Paul Brake to Eric. He still doesn't look at him.

“I don't mind them,” says Eric.

“Come here then,” says Paul Brake.

“What?” says Eric.

“I said 'Come here, then', didn't I?”

Eric Gowrie opens the gate and comes here. He steps up the steps and onto the grass.

Paul Brake is bending over and picking something up off the ground.

It's a slug.  Quite a big one.  It's brown.

“Come here,” he says to Eric.

“What?” says Eric.

“I said 'Come here', didn't I?” Paul Brake holds the slug on his flat fingers.  It has pulled in its horns.  It's like a slimy blob.

“Kiss it,” he says.

“What?” says Eric.

“You like slugs? Then kiss it.”

Eric looks at Paul Brake.

Eric looks at me and Dom.

Dom and I look at each other. I've got my hands in my pockets and I nudge my willy because I suddenly need to wee. I see Dom's eyes look over to Eric and then to Paul Brake and then back to Eric again.

Paul Brake is just staring at Eric.

I think how horrible it would be to have to kiss a slug. My wee doesn't want to go away so I cross my knees a bit to keep it in.

“No,” says Eric.

“What?” says Paul Brake.

“I don't want to kiss it.”

“Are you chicken?” says Paul Brake. “Kiss it!”

Paul Brake holds the slug right up close to Eric's mouth.

Eric just stands absolutely still looking at Paul Brake.

I think Paul Brake is going to push the slug onto Eric's mouth. I look at Dom. But Dom is looking at Paul Brake. Paul Brake doesn't push the slug onto Eric's mouth but he steers his hand around the side of Eric's face and slowly presses the slug onto Eric's cheek.

Eric stands absolutely still. Still.

Paul Brake slowly takes his hand down again but the slug stays stuck to Eric's cheek for a moment.

Then it falls off onto the ground. There is a little slimy wet patch on Eric's cheek where the slug was.

Suddenly me and Dom hear Mum shout from the kitchen.

“It's teatime,” says Dom.

“We have to go in,” I say, “it's our teatime.”

“See you tomorrow,” says Paul Brake.

“Yes,” says Dom, “see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Eric,” I say. “ Bye, Paul.”

“Yeah, bye,” says Paul Brake.

Eric doesn't say anything.

At tea, Mum says, “Did you have a good game?”

“It was all right,” says Dom.

“Eric Gowrie came round,” I say. Dom looks at me really hard.

“Oh did he?” says Mum. “Did he want to play?”

“No. Not really,” I say.

Dom looks at me.

I look at Dom.

“Can I have another cake, Mum?” I say.

I cut the grass today - 14th July, 2016

I, like so many, have been deeply affected by the horrific attack in #‎Nice‬ - the tragic loss of life - the shock and terror suffered by those people must have been awful. I myself am preparing to go on holiday today it seemed so trivial and in appropriate and this poem occurred to me as I did so. It is an imagined poem but it is offered out of respect for the dead and injured.

in memoriam

I cut the grass today

in anticipation of our holiday.

The stems bent before the blades.

I do not weep for grass -

there is satisfaction in a job

complete,

pleasure

in that moment of return

when looking out

from the kitchen window,

as the cold tap runs to drinkable

and the fridge shudders to life again,

to see the recovered lawn

once more needing

to be cut.

So I cut the grass today,

and as I do

you

text from France to say

that this is the best holiday

and that this evening you will go to see

the firework display -

Quatorze Juillet.

How nice, I say

and I picture you

in your holiday best -

cool sandals, shorts,

flowered shirt open over string vest -

as you promenade

des anglais

the English way

to take the air

and view the sea.

I zig and zag the grass

with the mower

buzzing through summer weeds

clattering unsuspecting stones

and insects.

You,

in my mind's eye

your child in arms

your lover's hand in yours

I watch

grass bending

before the blades.

Changing Schools

The car grinds gravel

as it swerves around the Virgin Mary.

It stops in front of the gates:

the car park – puddles and pebbles.

The woman gets out of the passenger’s side

and opens the back door.

"Come on, now," she coos.

"It'll be fine."

One by one,

three children slide across the back seat

and out onto the stony ground.

They huddle round the parent –

ducklings in an elastic bubble –

sheltering in her shadow.

She shepherds them through the gate

and into the asphalt playground.

Three children

in the wrong uniform

cling to her coat

as she scans for a teacher.

A large female

with huge hands

spies her and crosses towards them.

They talk adult

for a moment

before the female

switches to child

her voice simpers

and modulates 

as she invites the three

to go and play on the bars

until play is over.

They move inertly

and stand near the bars

while the mother

weaves out of the playground

issuing smiles, like seeds, to other children,

as if sowing protection for her own.

She waves a quiet goodbye,

climbs back into the car and

leaves.

A flock of watching infants

has gathered.

They have seen the car pull away

and now

turn

their attention.

The three circle their wagons

and eye each other hopelessly

as the silent tears come.

Claws

in Art when

Richard had finished his 

drawing 

he coloured in his fingernail

with

pencil as shiny as grey metal

then 

he did all the others
left hand and right
and 
when he had finished
he showed his claws

and snarled

at Jane

Friday deal

London Road

dark Friday night

and two

young men

one on his bike

are loitering

on the pavement

the other

next to him

negotiating

some transaction.

My heart pumping

I approach

wary of the implication.

When

I reach them

I see

that he

on the left

is pouring

into the hand

of he

on the bike

skittles

- go on have a few more.

Taste the rainbow

Home For Lunch

In the front room

where the sun pours in 

like coffee in the morning

Grandma and Granddad

sit,

mellow birds,

in the high back chairs

that we don’t use

much.

And then

when John and I

come home for lunch

there they are

waving.

We have belly pork strips

with soft

boiled potatoes,

cabbage

and thin golden gravy.

Granddad

takes out his teeth

and tosses powdered pepper

over his dinner

until we sneeze –

he can’t taste it

otherwise

he tells us.

He uses his pudding spoon

to finish up

the gravy

on his plate.

We watch him looking deep

into the spoon’s greasy bowl.

After a moment

he surfaces.

He tells us

that during the War,

the Great War,

they had to

urinate

on their gas masks

to make them work.

John and I

look at each other

with fearful smiles on our lips.

Grandma scrunches up her face

and pulls

her head down into her shoulders

and says

Ooh!

She is not really listening.

Mum says

its time for Listen with Mother

and

Daphne Oxenford

is coming to get us.

We run back to school

even though its

Latin.

from my first collection

Egg Yolk and Blue Biro

Sugar Rush

I had noted the seductive sultriness of your green eyes

your oaken hair

your smoky breath

your thighs, your belly, their junction

I had bundled feelings into a bag called Love

that should rightly have been called Desire or Lust

or some other more animalistic function

And so to fashion some sort of introduction

where none could be found naturally

I walked the dark passage to your door

knocked to say hello and see

if you could lend me sugar

a cupful

a spoonful

perhaps a small granulated cliché

You

invited me in

with the sultry seductiveness of your green eyes

your oaken hair

those thighs, that belly and the triangulated junction of the two

while you, seeking

the fundamentally unnecessary

sat me in the kitchen

plied me with tea

although you had no need so to do

but proved yourself as amiable

as you were desirable

I was buoyed by the scent of your sex

the musk of you as you curled

around me in your kitchen

the whisper of whirled air

caught in the vortex of your movements

swift

soft, yet

deliberate

You smiled sunshine onto the tiles

wiped up my nervousness

with a damp cloth

while my heart danced

and then I loved only you

forever

and I painted images

with the eye of my mind

of us

old

with the children visiting

and grand children

named after us

while you talked of nosey neighbours

and bus routes

and the lack of good shops

And so when I left

with the sugar

I was swinging

through the clouds

on my way home

as high as a simile

Yet only when I

sat in my kitchen 

poured the sugar

into my lap

as if it were

your fingers

undoing me

only then

did I realise

you were just

being neighbourly

because after all you were just

my neighbour

and the empty cup

crashed

to the floor

as I sobbed 

syrupy tears