Nut

You were hard today

Like the shiny shell of a nut

And it seemed I’d cracked you

Looking for nourishment,

Or just something to do;

Biting down on the kernel of you.

A possible explanation for the writer's death plunge from his second floor window

I can see the crosshair in this window

it’s has it’s sights on me,  you see

the sun, has it in for those who hide

inside, tapping out their fantasies

like one of many monkeys

I’ll turn these keys into sails then

open windows to a breeze

and dodge the bullet, escape incarceration, 

dance daft into Spring air lent 

summer’s warmth by the accident 

of an island then suddenly free 

I’ll fall 

because I live on the second floor. 

Kick

I was looking at the inside of a shoe

when you came up and kicked me with bare feet

they were soft as crabs, 
and bony like bad meat.

It didn’t hurt and there was no insult taken

even if it was meant,

So I bent down to kiss your bleeding toe,

as you said; no. 

One boy

A year of appearances and disappearances

regular as breathing,

I play peek-a-boo on a grand scale,

Daddy performer working little limbs,

in weekly re-union,

wetting the warm dint of your neck;

in this family boys cry.

There’s been a lot of that lately,

in lost-limb weeks I feel your itching

and your faltering steps,

each time I stumble, hit the decks 

reckless or exploratory,

Warm as my blood, you claim muscle

from soft arms,

train kicking legs to stand

your ground.

I mark it for you, and take my place,

at once; wurlizer, roundabout,

shoot-em up, and clown,

but true too, I am your mute pedagogue,

teaching lost limbs to dance.

Office blind

Light through slatted blinds is supposed to be

all chiaroscuro, romantic, movie-like.

It should inspire smoking or the tipping of a hat,

but these office blinds divide a light too light for that

the gentle sing-song of your chat 

portends no threat, or plot.

I know this scene frame by frame you see,

so while the light cuts your face pleasingly

nothing will be spilt here, but a little bit of tea

and some minor confidence. 

It’s no basis for a film. 

Marching

I looked up in drizzle

to see the far hills;

knuckles of a fist inching forward

as I walked

And in the lowing grey

a mourning moon rested 
her hymnbook under 
that famous round chin,

then dropped it to shine

unexpectedly,

like the outbreak of laughter at a wake

or the fast march home from war. 

The Entertainment

Hers was a stuttering demotic voice

All it’s aitches dropped like a stich

For effect, and the tautening of

Conversational canvas, bringing

The audience in like lobster pots

Full of scuttling claws,

His was a declamatory style

Of the old kind, pier end stuff

Bellowing fondly through

Wind rouged cheeks

Netting his catch with a twirl

Familiar from TV in the days

Before phone-ins

And with routines dispatched

Half laughers and kids off

To hunch over flip-penny

And shoot-em up, to take in

The sweet fat of a donut

Or to sit on the sea wall

Chucking chips at guls

He turns his wiped eyes to hers

Her hand, clairvoyant or just 

Well-rehearsed finds his and tightens

With all the promise of a life

In lights, which may yet appear

Like a rescue mission or plans for

Lottery funded re-generation

They are relics, waiting to be found

And young enough to have no

Property or place, outside the ricking pier

Nothing to stop them coming here

For the faltering applause

And the indifferent sea whose waves

Could hardly choose these shores.