Good Day
Birdsong melded
with forest fragrance,
butterflies danced
the exuberance of life
while I sipped
Chateau Le Touron,
Monbazillac.
I basked
in the warm glow
of good fortune
as a gentle breeze
blew wispy cloud
across a pale-blue sky
and then she appeared
with her soft,
Mediterranean eyes
and the je ne sais quoi
of her Gallic mystique
and reality froze
as she sang
with her angel’s voice,
“Bonjour, Monsieur.”
My mind flashed
across 50 years
to a thousand falters…
that had brought me
to this moment,
in this paradise,
on this Earth.
Naturellement, I replied,
“Oui, Mademoiselle:
a very good day.”
Published in Reach 102
ISSN: 1461-1112
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It’s Great
Beautiful baby:
precious moment in time.
“Be careful holding her
with your big hands!
She’s lucky to have
her Mum’s nose and eyes.”
It’s great being a Dad.
Beautiful child:
the gift of a snotty nose.
“She’s scribbled
in your books again!
It’s OK now, Bab:
he’ll get some new ones.”
It’s great being a Dad.
Beautiful girl:
boundless energy of youth.
“Can you drop me
at my friend’s house?
Finish your tea first;
I’ll need picking up at nine.”
It’s great being a Dad.
Beautiful lady:
evocation of womanhood.
“I’m expecting
a baby in April.
I’ve had a scan;
would you like to see the picture?”
It’s great being a Granddad.
Published in Reach 101
ISSN: 1461-1112
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I couldn't see him…
then the cloud shifted
and there he was:
glittering in the night sky,
hovering over the greenhouse
with his tail pointing to The Lickeys.
I remembered that time…
a small boy
with a tall father,
seeking from a different garden.
I wondered when my kind
had first met him.
Did they gaze at the night sky,
see him,
introduce themselves
as Homo Sapien:
the upright ape-man?
They must have understood his shape
and named him, 'The Plough.'
They could not have known
he was part of Ursa Major…
or perhaps they did.
I wondered
how many generations
had died
to permit me
to speak to him last night.
In an upwardly mobile world,
it's good to know
that some things never change.
I've shown my
children where he is;
I hope they'll take a moment
to gaze at the night sky,
say hello to him
and remember me.
******************************
I Miss Your Smile
It’s been thirty years:
different times then.
Same man, I think;
couple of stone,
slight stoop,
less hair,
greying,
quieter;
funny eye,
gammy leg.
Not much wiser
I remember that time:
that night in ‘The Locarno’.
‘Twenty-one-today’ and all that.
You guys not in my life anymore.
What happened to you, Big Tony?
The best scrapper down our street.
You saved my ass a few times:
glad you were on my side
And Jenny, my first love;
you broke my heart.
No problem these days:
I’ve long since moved on.
I hope life’s been good to you;
it turned out pretty well for me.
What are you doing now, Bob?
You had me in stitches, man!
Did you ever get to
In that Mini Clubman?
Sorry I couldn’t go:
regretted that.
And Maggie:
our Maggie May.
So tragic in the end.
I never realised the truth:
almost brought me to my knees.
You must be a special angel, I think.
I still picture you: you were beautiful.
And Satinder Singh Sehmi (Satchmo).
Always worried about your turban:
hated people staring at it;
blokes glaring at you.
Just ignore them:
bollocks to them.
No one will bother you,
not with all us around you,
not with Big Tony on your side.
Did you make it as a model, Debs?
“Call me, Brown Sugar,” you said.
You were certainly that, kiddo.
How famous did you get?
Was it you in that song?
I miss you so much.
Bloody great night, that one:
never been so drunk in my life.
You must have sunk ten pints, Tony!
You were a smashing dancer, Sue Brown.
Hey Satchmo! You said you couldn’t drink.
John, you actually pulled my trousers down.
Bob and Maggie smooching the night away.
Christopher Boyd carrying me back home.
Jonesy waffling about joining the army.
Then those two policemen appearing.
Me shouting, “Stuff the coppers!”
Billy Daly clamping my mouth.
Bob slurring, “Solly Ozifers.”
“Get him home,” they said.
Big Tony sitting on me.
Policemen laughing:
really good sports.
Satchmo singing
(bloody awful).
Jenny laughing
(girly giggles).
Debs singing
(wonderful).
Jenny crying
(crazy girl).
Me singing
(aaarrgh).
Me crying
(oh no).
I miss
your
smile.
******************************
Boys From Brisco Mount
Boys From Brisco Mount
were not expected
to be high achievers,
although the brightest
might attend tech college
and aspire to be fitters
at the biscuit works.
According to general opinion,
we came from a long line
of lower class no-hopers
and were scheduled,
as a matter of course,
to keep with this tradition.
A legend concerning
a hapless native,
caught defiling
a helpless ruminant
had led to us all
being labelled
with the same tag
and added to the consensus
of inbred ne’er-do-wells.
Factory fodder
was the destiny
of most of us
as we left the school gates
for the final time,
which was a better deal
than previous generations
whose destiny,
(apart from sheep-shagging),
was to be cannon fodder.
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