x

MOBILITY

*

Unable to decide quite where to be,

I’m based in the car this Christmas,

Travelling from relation to relation.  Think of me

As an eighty horse-power snail

Whose shell goes wherever it’s expected. 

In between, I make my lar

From fuel bills and burger tissues,

Take the air by breathing through the heater. 

Fingers dark with oil, tagged by Rollo foil,  

Snug in my own condensation and ensconced

In the bygone odour of myself, I guess I’m well supplied,

What with the jump-leads, the damp-start

And the anti-freeze behind my back,

A trove of coins beneath each rubber mat.  

If I require sustenance there’s melted peppermint

Pooled in the key tray, crumbs

Of chocolate smeared into the stubble. 

These corroded tapes keep me company:

They squeak along to what they play.

Memory’s stirred by mud from walks, pebbles

From the shore, emptied nylon packets,

Ticket stubs and someone’s glove.

After each lunch, I roll off for the next supper,

Only to drift down some slip-road, screw back the back

Of the seat and cancel out all consciousness

Of getting there, of which route to take, of where I am,

Of where to exit, when to make my entrance…

x

Note: Lar is a local god or the shrine of such a god – as in Lares et Penates

x

AMEN

*

There’s a dog with antlers lying next to Santa.

Santa is out for the count. The dog’s antlers

Are made of felt. They only sprout while

His muzzle remains on the pavement.

Sort of sprout…You get the idea,

And what is this festive season about

But that? The idea that binds us together

So that the shepherds may bond with the Magi,

The Magi bond with the shepherds

Before the blessed manger. Pray for the dog

x

That he may profit from his antlers.

x

INNISFREE

x

When all my mum remembered

Was the isle of Innisfree,

I put her in an old folk’s home

And sometimes went for tea.

*

She couldn’t clean herself by then,

She couldn’t use the loo.

She only stroked her little dog

And asked me who was who.

*

I never sat with her for long.

I wanted to be free:

Dress up smart and head for town

To meet with Kerry-Lee.

*

Now Kerry-Lee wrote poetry:

Her poetry was fine.

I took her to a restaurant

And asked her to be mine.

*

She said, ”Though I’m from Canada,

I’ve lived for six long years

Up the valleys with a guy

Who never changed his gears.

*

I’m not prepared to settle down

With anyone just yet.”

She smiled the loveliest of smiles

And rolled a cigarette.

*

“Then sleep with me, at least,” I sighed,

“For money, if you like.”

So every Friday, after that

She’d visit on her bike.

*

You could say I was mad for her.

Neglecting my old mum,

I’d lie abed with Kerry-Lee,

While she got through the rum.

*

With Christmas over, mum took ill

And died within a week.

I drove up to the hospital

And kissed an icy cheek.

*

Before the crematorium

Had turned mum into ash,

Kerry-Lee had let me know

She didn’t need the cash.

*

Mad for Paul, she was, you see;

My colleague, where I taught.

Then everything got swallowed up

In one enormous nought.

*

And there being nothing I could do

About my mother’s dog,

I left her in the old folk’s home

Where things turn into fog.

x

MAKING A CAMP

x

We used to call it making a camp, firstly under a table

When we were nippers, filching a blanket out of the dog’s basket;

Later in the wood nearest home, leaning the stoutest fallen

Branches against a trunk. This was our hideout, where the gang

x

Would meet – as Turpin might have met his fellow highwaymen

North of prehistoric Loughton Camp in his dugout maybe.

Common enough, this Christmas. Against a tree again,

Staves draped in tarpaulin, some old mattress dragged therein.

x

There’s one in Down Lane Park. Soon the cops will move him on.

While underneath the railway, in that concrete cavern

To the left as you emerge from the underpass, several grim

Bedraggled tents shelter sleeping bags from the damp

x

Where fresh graffiti vies with last year’s for wall space.

x

(Seasonal poems, written over the years, and now all collected in my Shorter Poems.)