I was six when I was given my first teacup, one painted with swirling vines and delicate roses entwined. My grandmother gave it to me because I had become old enough for tea by then. Not a strong builder’s brew or exotic Assam, but a milky sweet barely there tea that gets stronger as you get older. Over the years the cup would get tiny chips around the rim that bit into my lip when I sipped. I couldn’t use any other cup though because they weren’t mine.
When my parents divorced my father moved out and I took my cup with me to visit him. He had a salmon pink cup with a leaping rabbit on the front waiting for me. I wouldn’t use it. One day I noticed a hairline crack cut through the middle of a large crimson rose and I had to become more careful, not letting anyone else touch it. I never let the by then black tea stain the soft off-white china, I knew how to take care of my cup. Then I only drank tea and he only drank cheap white wine, from the bottle. I’d sit cross legged in my armchair and clasp my hands around my cup; it kept me warm when he hadn’t turned the heating on. He’d sit in his armchair; it was larger and more spoilt than mine, as it had cigarette burn polka dots on it. Sometimes when he was out I would sit in his armchair and pretend I was him. I’d put a pencil in my mouth and pretend to smoke. When I heard the key turn I would rush back to my place.
Then he smashed my cup and I swept it up in tears. He threw it against the wall and the shards sprinkled down like snowflakes.
Alone
I wish to be alone,
In a crumbling croft,
Or a torn up cabin.
Far from the maddening crowd,
And the starless skies.
Away from the nine to five,
And the possessions made for landfills.
Where you cannot find me,
And I am in peace.
Yet we are not alone,
Not in the wilderness,
But under the city street lamps.
Where the needy sleep outside supermarkets,
And the children have never seen Orion’s Belt.
Where the bustling masses shove you,
Against poster claded walls.
Where the air smells of exhaust fumes,
And fast food franchise waste.
I wish to be alone.
Without you,
Without them,
Without ambition.
A Photograph of You
I see you for the first time,
In a torn Polaroid.
Your mouth curled into a smile,
And your hair tightly permed.
Sat between a fern and a stone,
I imagine you’d go there to think,
About your grandchildren or husband.
But perhaps you had none.
On rainy days would you go there?
And sit on a damp bench,
Throwing stale bread to the ducklings,
Whiling away the day.
When you felt alone would you watch the koi swim swiftly,
Or a spider expanding its web?
Would you watch the clouds float above,
And see the faces of the ones you lost?
Would you watch your photographs develop before your eyes,
And know that the moment you captured is now lost forever?
On Our Way
Walking against the rain,
Hand gripped around yours.
Rushing across the street,
Dodging traffic and meandering pedestrians,
We reach the bridge.
Below the dull waters slowly flow,
As ducks bob for algae.
The river runs for miles,
Before it reaches us.
It’s rippled and trickled,
And gushed to us;
And will continue for miles more.
A speeding cyclist makes you jump,
And I laugh, but onward we walk.
Past the pub already filling,
With working class men who’ll curse our youth.
Sunbeam (Dubrovnik, 1999)
You tickle the exterior of my heart,
Your gleam dancing through me.
Eyes closed and sun beaming down,
Making my sight red.
My tender skin warms from you.
You, distant light,
That feels so close right now,
How I want to be enveloped by you.
You, with your power and strength,
With the warmth to heat the eyelids of billions,
From way up there.
How I want to be part of you,
Part of your beauty,
Part of your mystery;
Part of your solitude.
So I too can lonelily look upon Earth.
On Being a Woolyback
“Ar’ ey” they’d say,
“There’s a woolyback in town”,
Trespassing on their turf.
I’d scuttle past them in a hurry,
Because I had heard the stories.
They’d get “bevvied” and smoke “ciggies”,
Tossing beer bottles into the dock.
They’d brawl in the Cavern Club,
And “rob ya” just because.
But among the abandoned factories,
That dozed by the riverside;
There was a park, so still,
And sheltered from the northern wind.
That I would almost forget those stories.
Until I was on the train,
Going home,
And saw the Bulger flowers.
Names Engraved
Beneath the bowers of our tree,
I curl against the twisted roots.
Head wrapped in coarse sack I cower,
As the beasts sing a midnight hymn.
The soil’s embedded in my wrinkles,
And clogs up my throat.
Arms bound together,
And worms tickling my sunken skin;
And I feel them trample on the ground above,
Like a whip lashing against bare flesh.
They strung me up like a wind chime,
And I blew freely in the breeze.
Until they cut me down and I crumpled.
The blossom and the leaves have covered my frail form,
And I am hidden from their history,
In my darkened tomb;
Below the tree with our names engraved,
That fades more each day.
Bluebell
Scattered amongst the mossy turf,
and circled around the tree trunks;
they’d blow gently to and fro.
You told me fairies and sprites sheltered
under their flared heads,
when the rain or snow fell.
I’d pick them by the slopes of the beck,
and place them on your dresser.
Sometimes you’d pluck the flowers off their stems,
and weave them into my braids.
Dancing like Titania I ruled over the forest,
shouting commands at the blackbirds and thrushes.
But they always flew away.
Once I thought I saw a figure,
hiding underneath a rotten toadstool,
but now I doubt I ever did.
Dreaming of the Ocean
Down by the harbour I watched the gulls,
And skimmed the ocean with broken shells.
Down by the harbour I closed my eyes,
And listened to the tales of crying waves.
Down by the harbour I dreamed up sirens,
That would lure the weary boatswains.
Down by the harbour I envisioned a storm,
With lightning bolts that raised alarm.
Down by the harbour is where I was born,
And to the harbour I shall soon return.
Candy Cane
In Response to Conrad Aiken’s Silent Snow, Secret Snow
The winter is quiet,
Muffled by the snow and frostbite.
Feet crush the flakes into hard slippery ice.
The peace when the road is closed,
Cannot be likened to anything else.
You stay wrapped up in jumpers and blankets,
Sipping hot cocoa and mulled wine.
The silence grows stronger.
The clock that beat out as loud as a human heart,
Is now a whisper;
And the creaks that were cackling screams,
Are now forced shut.
Trapped, you sit and watch the flakes,
Falling, dancing downwards.
They spiral and spin drawing you close to them.
With no television or radio,
The house is quite still.
Even your hums seem silenced,
As if a pillow is being held against your face.