Checkout

He waits

by the checkout,

collecting baskets,

as usual.

My nod brings a question:

“D'you know what

autistic means?”

We wait as if time

will conjure an answer.

“You can’t see it,

they say.”

“That’s right,” I smile,

placing a divider

after my groceries.

He shuffles off,

wheeling his stack.

Not much to go on,

really.

Some days,

that’s all there is.





Nazar Boncuğu

For Eve

I must have stopped

before I felt her gaze:

an old dame squatting

in the sun,

by Sultanahmet.

Her hand reached out,

pressing a nazar bead

into my palm;

then motioned me to go,

back where she thought

I’d come.

Lost all day,

I couldn’t say,

not speaking her language.

The blue bead hangs

above my daughter’s bed -

an amulet or nazar boncuğu,

left there

and probably discarded.

Maybe she knew that too,

the lady in Istanbul;

but gave me the nazar anyway,

as proof against

malochhio,

matiasma, ayn al-ḥasūd

the evil eye;

trusting that it would find a home

when one was needed.

It winks out from

a trove of other gifts:

pendants and bangles,

charms and rings;

a Pippi Långstrump doll,

barbies and beanie-babies.

Beside, in pride of place,

a poster of Edward Scissorhands,

proving perhaps,

in London Town, as anywhere,

that innocence

must stand protected.

Absent Friends

The things they say about you

are true:

blitzed by breakfast,

appearing half-naked

with only one shoe.

What happened at dinner

remains a blur,

though, scanning the suspects,

it’s most what you fear.

Reaching for that drink,

adjusting your smile,

tell us life is worth it,

if only for a while.

We wouldn’t have known

you had a soul,

if you hadn’t tripped over

and landed in hell.

The peace of the cemetery

has a dubious charm,

for those whose lifestyle

gives cause for alarm.

A future in exile,

is how it all ends:

adrift in eternity,

toasting absent friends.

Moment

Things that turn up

for no reason

bother me.

Were they in hiding?

Are they always here?

What they get up to

in our absence

is anyone’s guess.

Perhaps there’s a parallel world

where lost is found.

I’ve never been there,

so I don’t know.

Not looking

makes sense,

if you see what I mean:

not searching for gaps

to fill.

Still, I’m glad we retrieved

this moment.

It’s been missing

a while.

Cliff Walk

(Mudstone Cove, Devon)

The mud is firm today,

puddles are memories;

but still the squall surprises.

Breakers roll in,

as they have for ever,

chased by a north-east wind.

Almost in slow motion,

they succumb to spray.

That yacht in the bay

courts disaster,

hanging on every wave.

Glimpses like photographs:

moments you strive to keep

even if feet know different,

turning for home,

just as the shutter clicks.



Testament

Saw him in Fore Street,

talking to himself:

at least, it looked that way;

no crowd to speak of.

Just the old dear

not right in the head,

gulls on the scrounge,

the usual crowd

on route to market.

Telling of God, he were,

how He loves us all;

though no one was there.

Maybe they’d worked it out already.

Later, I spied him down by the quay,

staring out at the bay.

He was having a bite,

job done for the day,

I figured.

I’m not superstitious, mind,

but the mist had cleared.

What’s more,

I couldn’t help note,

sunlight was falling straight

on his sandwich.

Lunar Logic

Wave goodbye to the moon;

it’s another day.

What it’s still doing in the sky

this morning,

God only knows.

There goes my neighbour

with his dogged pooch;

sees me waving;

strides off for his News.

The moon’s an insomniac,

I want to shout,

not that he’d be interested

in rumours like that.

What makes each day turn

is anyone’s guess:

if it’s not in the headlines,

it must be somewhere else.

Stranger

Sometimes, it’s easy

to live for strangers:

their eyes belong elsewhere;

their dreams won’t disturb.

Faces we can’t see

absolve us,

leaving our nakedness open,

our ghosts intact.

What we don’t know protects,

granting redemption,

before truth destroys us

in its eager rush.

If you were a stranger

and we could connect,

we might make a language

of all the words lost.

Brixham Banksy

Is It a ‘Banksy’,

a real-live Banksy?

Tell us it’s a Banksy.

Must be a Banksy,

why not?

If it is a Banksy,

it’s worth something, innit?

Not just a nibble;

squillion, at least.

Can’t be a Banksy,

not really -

in this place?

Not never. No way.

Bet you it’s not.

But how can you tell

if it isn’t a Banksy?

Looks like a Banksy,

so it could be a Banksy.

Down by the market?

He’s human, at least.

Only Bansky can tell

if it’s really a Bansky,

and is he for real?

Is Bansky a Bansky?

Only Banksy would know that;

and he’s an enigma,

whatever that means,

so who can be sure?

Maybe no one’s a Banksy,

not even Banksy,

you thought of that?

What’s it mean anyway,

bloke chucking fish?

If I was Banksy

(and I’m not saying I’m not, right?)

I’d throw in some chips.

Dawn Run

Berry Head, Devon

Light tugs at your heels,

a wakeful child,

hungry for answers.

It begs you to paint a cave,

sketch logs,

invent a fire,

crack jokes with the gulls,

build a new world

before breakfast.

Instead, you jog back

down cliff-top paths,

past battlefields of gorse

and wary Devon cows

to where home lies waiting.

Leaving the sun

to stop fooling around

and sort out the day,

as usual.

Descent

On Monday, he noticed a rip

in the sky,

growing larger the more he thought;

and wondered if

this was a sign.

On Tuesday, laughter

came and went.

He ignored it.

On Wednesday, nothing happened

and he was afraid.

On Thursday, he knew

that left three days

to remake the world.

On Friday, he realised

time was old.

Saturday, the earth

grew quiet.

On the seventh day, he wept,

knowing that nothing mattered now,

not even the authorship

of these words.

Enfant

They say she’s asleep,

but you’re not sure:

a presence

in the night,

no one will hear.

Shadows conspire,

down the long passage

to bed.

Shut the door gently

and creep,

hoping her cries won’t wake

the monster.

Mary

Sleeps in the doorway

by the baker’s,

where Woolllies used to be.

Clenched in shawls,

in the shadows,

wary of the boys.

Shoppers watch

her shuffle by:

eyes stalk her to the check-out

and beyond,

back to her world.

The snacks she crumbles,

stick to her fingers

like dough.

No answer,

just a squeak:

hardly a protest

at the cold.

Saw her in Fore Street

this morning

on her way.

Someone had given her

a fur-trimmed coat.

Looked quite the part, her did.

From the back, you wouldn't notice.

Fishtown

They’ve switched Santa off for the night,

leaving a muffled shape

among the harbour lights.

The pubs are mute:

press gangs no longer roam

through alleys bent

down to the water’s edge,

to hunt their own reflections.

King William’s statue reigns

where history was built

among the gulls and chip-papers;

A sailing trawler waits

for time’s return

beside its hi-tech cousins.

And sleeping townsfolk trust

morning will come

with long bright fingers

to undo the dark,

revealing a different ending.