The dawn played false again this year.
We dared and lost, now bad blood curdles us;
our hollow ‘mate’ hangs upside down,
a winner only for September…
Mired in the ash-end of our hopes,
we are conflicted to the core:
a win for pride would lessen us.
How did it come to this? Again.
But hey! The stadium is new and swish –
with decent beer, sometimes, and corporate
hosting – like some blank airport terminal.
The whited sepulchre of goals.
Did you prefer me in a mask
or with my lived-in face revealed?
My hooded eye, my crooked nose
cracked lips and worn down snaggled teeth
Was it better with illusion?
Would you choose and even covet
views of artful, crafted fabric –
or touch reality’s drab shades?
His eyes disquiet us.
Affectionate, devoted, eager
and intent, attempting to
ingratiate himself – or spring
But veiled with the suspicion
that would flare without warning
into defence, into attack, a flash
that bared those teeth in anger,
unprovoked; to bite the hand
that fed, that cared for him…
Blood and bruises, tetanus and shock.
The curtains draw a few more times,
drawn closed on tenterhooks and lies
by us who know, on him – oblivious –
who blindly licked and sprang. Or snapped.
Eyes wide. Days short. Disquieting.
A little, light and fragile thing,
but fierce, is coming to an end
I walked today for walking’s sake
along the former railway line –
heading out cross-country
away from house-backs crowding in,
past schools and smallholdings –
cut and banked, civils large:
a theatre of citizens ~
Some seemed intent, but most friendly:
the steppers, joggers, dog walkers,
pairs of red-faced cyclists,
that little girl on her first bike
hurtling to her mummy –
and just this once a man
with on his arm a hoodless hawk:
A gimlet glance from the absurd ~
Out facing the wind, then back, I
shook off a winter’s lethargy
between the cross-ways and the wye
light was in his eyes:
just a man, but always more;
modern-day martyr
Quarters turn once more
Tilted light regathers strength
Our heads lift in hope
Someone I encountered:
tall, austere and somewhat gaunt,
stern and awkward, with a side of anger;
thin-souled, though woven from the threads
of everyday humanity
Words were disconnected.
They had been finely drawn –
perhaps by longing’s subtleties,
perhaps by isolation’s anguish –
but certainly by fitting in (best efforts made)
while never in conformity
A lifetime. Of all that.
He was puzzled by another:
by someone else’s self-imposed constraints
that cut across her own interests (unvoiced),
while all she saw of him – outlined –
was jagged spars and black rigging, tangled
Without apparent reason.
The best girl kept her brother safe;
reached out and protected him –
the sea-green incorruptible –
shielded mainly from himself
She crossed the shallow, sandbanked sea
despite scant means, her narrow funds;
they tore at the weave of Christmas
so their elders’ fabric grew dark
The finest girl, as always –
ever, ever and always –
acted for the best reasons
to do what she thought was right
Merry Christmas time
‘Be quiet, old man’ he said
“Tears of rage” played on
Love at first was all
but endings are the story;
we do not control…
Maintain the Advance! 