Gold

What is it about the past that makes it seem so golden?  A few days ago, a month ago, last year – gilded and adorned on the walls; on the shield of a Roman soldier.  My friends and I walked these streets day-in-day-out for who knows how long and all that changed was the lines on our faces and the toughness of our skin. 

When Maggie came back that summer I met her in a bar just off the river and I drank until I couldn’t see straight; then I drank until I couldn’t talk right; and then I drank until I couldn’t feel. 

We phoned (well, I phoned her) at the hotel near the station.  She wouldn’t speak but I insisted.  I insisted on it.  I insisted on seeing her.  I wanted to know that she was there – for real, in the flesh.  I wanted her to love me one last time.   

Lines Written Upon Reading Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey"

What I can only describe
as heaps and heaps of crap, sprawled,
on the floor, precisely,
where it shouldn’t be:
Last year’s memos;
this year’s forgotten notes;
Letters from before.

And within the debris
the shiny, surviving
trinket thought
long destroyed
beckons.

Lines written beyond the horizon
or on the bridge; or in
the ivy cottage;
to my dear sister, brother, friend:
sincere love, envy, lust for
a dark lady.

And they remind me of things
unlived; dreams undreamt.
I have a home in a Renaissance song,
in a Romantic river.

In the shadows of Tintern Abbey,
I too, see myself.   

 

Illuminations Unlit

From the top of the tower you could see the world.  Or, at least, the west coast of England as it ran under your feet into the horizon.  The day she visited Blackpool it was warm for the spring and everywhere she went the people would remind each other. The sun played tricks on you – it makes everything seem that little bit more special.  Slowly, she put one foot on to the glass floor and when she felt confident that she wasn’t going to plummet to the ground she placed her other one.  She stood resolute, feet apart and hands on hips; proud that she’d come so far, climbed so high and experienced England’s floating tower.  She reached out to put her palm against the glass window. The panoramic view from the top of the Blackpool tower was a snapshot of life.  Under the sun the water dazzled and seemed to part in a gold abyss.  The roaring waves spilled on to the pavement and she was glad to be in the sky; far from the lights and the hysteria.  She clutched her camera and could see her mother’s face glow when she showed her everything she’d done here.  She longed for home but she knew that they would be proud.

The letters you send get dirty out here.  They’re kind, they tell me nice stories of what you do.  I know you don’t love me though.  You’re with a new man.  The man and woman are different colours and I am both of them.  Their trickly love runs down my back, perspiration in the heat.  You can’t hear the sound of guns like I can; you don’t see the danger that I see.  But that’s what we do: we specialise and it’s survival.  I’ve dealt my last hand, you’re going to miss me when I’m gone.  I have as many chips left as days.   

There’s an image of me
that only exists
in a chest under the ocean.

A portrait of me that,
   I painted,
it’s surreal and distorted:
I made it, after all.

My body is hidden in shadow
   a cape, no less.
My face is part Organic
   part Mechanic.

Because he could

Oh and he would always raise his hands to his hair or to the back of his head as if he was relaxing or stretching, but it was (and she knew) to flex his arms and let bystanders witness his arms bulge with male prowess.  Part of her was flushed; part of her felt terrified: this brute was capable of anything.  She knew her place in the shadow of his broad shoulders and it was continually reinforced.  She could never quite look at him directly.  She never knew where to put her eyes: out the window mainly; to the wall beside him as he spoke, or to the table.  She clutched her glass and finished it quickly.  There would be many more before the evening was over. 

Roses are Red

Although it sat on the shelf as proudly as its colleagues, Bowman never wore his “Mixed Roses” eau de toilette because it reminded him of summer.  He hated summer.  Summer was to him dampness and long journeys north to the mountains; or, even worse, southwards to the rural stench of the countryside.  Last summer, Bowman’s heart was split into various unequal portions by the girl that gave him the rose-inspired cologne – the real reason he now hated summer and, by extension, never used the aftershave. 

Victoria Park blossomed with fragrant marigolds and the sweet honey of alyssum - Bowman brought the roses. 

The pond water was green with algae and there was a smell of exhaust fumes from the adjacent dual carriageway.  He was clinging to her slipping fingers as she tilted her head to the side, away from his wide-eyed deer face.  She told him it wasn’t working out beside the ice cream van.  There was a fly trying to land on him.  He never wore that fragrance again.        

Somewhere in the Country

After an unremitting winter, the trees had started to bloom.  This meant that Madame Balchony of Westgreen estate called the gardener from Kenliworth to come and analyse the buds.  She knew exactly how buds grew into leaves and illuminated the brown skeletons of the estate making an enviable display – even better in autumn.  However, every time there was a change in her vast garden (seasonal or otherwise) she insisted on seeing the gardener.

   “My husband always loved the garden this time of year.”  Mrs Balchony looked down at the pansies growing by the path.
   “Indeed, Mam.  Mr Balchony was very proud of his garden.”
   “Which is why I keep it so splendid, Mathew.”  They followed the path which ran adjacent to the house.  Mathew had already surveyed the buds with the lady; gave a long (but not patronising) lecture on their seasonal growth and demise; and then surmised another wonderful turnout this year, as always.

   “I must say that the landscapers have made excellent work of the shrubbery.”  Mrs Balchony nodded and acquiesced.  They said nothing and just walked.  Mathew looked from here to there as if for a distraction: a tiny job needing done, a person he must speak to; there was nothing but the rolling fields beyond the estate and birds chirping somewhere out of sight.  Finally: “Is there anything else that I can do for you, Mam?”

     The lady looked somewhat startled.  She was engrossed in their peaceful stroll.  “No, I suppose not, Mathew,” she said quietly, “I suppose you do have other gardens to furnish.”
   “Indeed I do,” Mathew beamed proudly. “But of course,” he remembered to console her, “you have my number so please do call me at the first thing you need for the grounds.”
   “Thank you, Mathew.”  He bowed and left swiftly.

     She stood for a moment watching her perfect grounds as they were.  She felt a raindrop on her face.  Then another.  The old lady walked slowly into her vast house and the heavy clouds soon followed.          

When the sun set and the tide was high and the palm trees were silhouetted against the orange dusk Kane was still there.  Even when the mosquitoes were livid and the lanterns offered little light and the flag chattered in the wind, Kane was still there.  The time drew on, the stars peeped as the night waned into a deep blue, Kane sat on the sand with his hands on his knees and tried to imagine what it would be like to go to the Games.

The table was abandoned, the makeshift coconut rackets lay idle.  It had been a long day.  The team had gone to bed ages ago, but Kane was restless and thought a midnight training session helped him focus.  His coach disagreed.