Many happy returns

Watch face.jpg

 

last night a shower of beer rained down

over Bristol, London, Birmingham and far beyond

or at least that’s what I saw on the news

and out-performed any rainfall we have had for months

in a raucous tumult of emotion that echoed

the Roar of 66′

this morning, gingerly

blue skies are the blessing that meets

 those bleary eyes and broken hearts

that dared to dream and over-step the mark but

the grass will celebrate in the sweet ooze that was thrown away

and rise again

 so come home

young men and rub shoulders amongst your kith and kin

and know that we have shared your time abroad

been brought to our knees with you

so close, as ever, to that fervent wish.

We are family

We are family. pic.jpg

 

All of this will go. Be gone.

I am in the dissolving instant

already dust  of the future

That text from Gilly brought it home,

how she remembered us on a patch of grass in Southbourne

and me imagining it was a pitch, a full-blown wicket

and I could score

make centuries and maiden over’s with my cousin

unaware of her sex or its implications

and now,  perhaps half a century later

I am returned by words and the memories of another person’s cache

of history to a place and a time I thought I had lost

Sometime soon I will blink and someone else will be reminding me

of where I have been

By God, is that what I get from walking the Dog

the intoxicating sense of memory unearthing scattered parts

of me

R.I.P.

R.I.P.

 

to all of that

loquacious man

you spent so much

time in air

with stories that sailed

on perfumed winds

close to the edge of reason

and frequently beyond

but the fuel you used

high octane stuff

was poison

so when you sucked

you swallowed tainted fuel

and lit a flare

that could only ever do one thing

gutter, stutter or fizzle out

and you reached all three

now you leave

a crater on the moon

one holed sock

and a legend

that could never be.

Murmurs

Murmurs. pic.

 

the squeezed ooze of blue ink on Basildon Bond

rendered with care from a mother to her daughter

and signing off with, ‘all my love’

this small parcel of observations

from an old lady in Southbourne

lays like an unexploded emotion

on a desk in the loft

a soft Dove of Peace long dead

still sending murmurs across the generations

her gentle devotion so evident

it outlasts the post

and leaves me as the keeper of hope

a guardian at the gate of future generations

and I must admit, I baulk

at the responsibility

Ever Yours,

Christopher

Christopher. Pic for poem

 

Shout. Scream

deny all knowledge of that dream

The distance yawns

and fills the void

with stale air and residues

of harm

that neglect will come to know

as regret

that cloying self-pity that hangs

on the rags of remorse

and renders even love

to shrug

and wonder why

 

My boy who is now a man

has drifted in that domain

and knows so little of me

save that I sired him

and hurt his mother cruelly

He finds forgiveness hard

Those blank years went down

in flames and hate

so only silence and darkness

could void the pain

but now I sense the permafrost

might thaw

and I may be allowed

to make some recompense

small reparations to the ship of love

in this slow cycle of drawing out

the heat from that scream

and venom from the shout

 

May soft lips form

around the eternity of air

 that sucks and strains to find

the letters that hide in space

and just might spell

an end to longing

Not ever gone

 

Chess Mates. I have this sense of impending doom.

 

She rests there in dark matter

I apologize for using ‘she’

because mother it is you not she

I celebrate

your name encrypted on stone

an invitation to let go

to loosen tears and wet the earth

embracing you

while fond memories search for the present tense

in words stalled by time but still, their wings

are lamentations

that breathe a garnish on fresh flowers

the mourners grief a mist of warmth

and everything  succumbed to gravity

so that all around you have company

a regiment in this cemetery

and all of you ‘at ease’