It’s early.
Time to leave.
I go,
lay by your door an envelope,
sat shyly to one side and on the floor.
When you awake
you’ll take note, read,
not see me as remote and
feel glad, optimistic
and not sad that I have gone.
You sleep on
pillows of affection left behind.
Our shared time;
cherry blossom.
Regents Park picnics and Pelicans.
The Queens Gallery collection
viewed at three,
with free head phone talks.
Weekend rail-closures.
Walks.
Red-riding buses
with hoods up top.
Three, grace us with readings of
their poetry in pubs.
It’s all non-stop.
A river trip to Greenwich in the rain,
almost missed Nautical treasures at five
in painted pillared marbled halls.
Lightening on Primrose Hill.
Lost in sixties concrete,
found finches tuning base guitars; the Barbican.
Swan lake,
the Coliseum’s culture fill.
Champagne, flowers, dining in.
Gassed by Borough Market cooking beef.
Revived by veg’ and fruit and cheese but
bored by baubles’.
Starbucks for net-connections,
coffees teas.
At sunset,
crowded in the pod
watch lamplighters
flick switches underground
light bridges, towers, domes,
St Paul’s Westminster.
Like slow- sprinkled glitter
sparkling on spreading city air.
Seen from Peter Pan’s deep sky,
we celebrate this from
The London Eye.
‘Wordsworth’s reflecting river’s never still.
Dear God, his every building’s wide awake,
this mighty heart expressing all our will.’
The birthday visit list complete,
(no wonder you’re asleep).
Big heap of thank you.
And-
could we arrange another date to meet?
Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)
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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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