We Jostle for space,
men in leathers
clutch children who sip coke,
and women shunt pushchairs.
We’re dull grey, among the stalls
array of weighty apple towers,
lemons, sunny exotics that glow pink,
and veg’ fresh dug from dirt that day.
Still earthed and linked are
set with beans and greens
that gleam above the sizzled scent
of Borough Market beef
fried up along the lanes.
Under red advertising canopies
hover pale faced lads
by great wheels of cheese,
they offer tasters, smile, invite.
In the noise, the throng and din
you call my mobile,
because I am not home, not in.
‘Where is the heater Ma?’
You ask from a chilled void
of an empty house in early spring,
as trays of fresh baked bread pass by
cosy smells, things that you can’t see
at a distance baby Abbie cries.
You’re all cold and far from home
it’s a strain, desperation kicks you
in the back, and babies hunger pain.
Our voices meet and that’s the lot.
Lucky I’d left the door key,
just in case, tucked down, below a pot.
Others don’t approve.
I say, homes should be open.
Trace elements in my D.N.A.
from Goldilocks,
lost in the forest late at night,
found hot porridge, big chairs,
the comfort of a bed, ‘just right’.
In the hubbub I talk too loud
I listen to your voice that’s tender, frail.
This Dad, I know, won’t let them down.
As yours did, and mine, and other fathers down the line.
My hot chocolate and a hug won’t do, I feel you’re hurt,
and I am sad I can’t be there for you.
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Late Monday, I move my bed.
I wake, see from the window
straight ahead
a neighbours five bar gate.
Sun lights the cross bars,
lays shadow kisses on the track.
Deep in shade is laurel waving green
and barns stand at the back.
Sunday I woke to wall.
head east and west my toes.
This new shift about
has made me guardian
of who comes and goes
from the comfort of my bed.
I watch the farmer lug hay,
hear from the shed
the tractor’s coughing start.
The fuss, the coo and drool
of pigeons on the ridge and geese fly over,
out of sight land on the pool.
Before the sun moves round I’m up
busy with the day,
refreshed by the position of my bed.
Inspired,
I’ll set to work on other rooms instead.
Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)
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Rooms speak to you
when turned around.
They say;
smoothing matted hair,
settling in their comfy chair,
‘ Ah, this is how I like to be,
those years bolt upright, were not me’.
Bedrooms comment, ‘those clothes,
the ones you pile, never sort,
they’ve got the moth.’
They tut they cough,
‘not if not but - you’re just a slut.’
Rooms are honest though they pry.
You catch them opening the door.
You hear their judgements and they sigh,
the dust they blow becomes a cloud,
and sleeping’s rough they wheeze so loud.
Enough’s enough one day I said
sliding from my messy bed,
got bin bags, cleanser, polish, duster,
found all the strength that I could muster.
Shifted rugs, vacuumed bugs,
shunted, lugged those heavy thugs
of furniture. Great stomping stuff,
I puff.
Then I’m pleased, all’s clean,
cleaner than it’s ever been.
This room looks positively slender,
and it sings in voice quite tender,
a soothing spring refrain
immensely roomy for my brain.
Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)
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