Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Julian Was Coming To Visit

Glassy eyes,

against the glass,

of the garden facing window.

Day is done,

dinner,

unfulfilling,

clock ticking,

then snailing.

I hold a picture of him,

beside my beating heart,

that breaks,

with every minute.

Time snakes,

snailing,

hope hounded,

but prevailing,

because he could arrive,

at any minute.

Life is a surprise,

if you let it be.

Nurses collide,

whispering in the doorway,

about how he phoned,

how he’s sorry,

how he’s busy,

how they should tell me.

His picture,

pierces my heart,

until it is shattered and silent,

but I keep on living,

alone,

antique,

that he keeps,

in an expensive cupboard,

until he can collect his inheritance.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

We’ll Meet Again

Your bandaged, bleeding hands,

worked hard on Thursday night,

and they’ll be busy today,

bothering the bunting,

that you have fixed,

four hundred times,

before four AM,

for the sake of your neighbour’s eyes,

and your sense of national pride.

You tell me,

“We’ll Meet Again”,

and I’m not sure,

that I’m ready for that level of commitment.

I stay at home in bed,

possessed by Jo Stafford,

smiling at suicide,

blood red bunting,

on a bunker wall,

that couldn’t have happened,

to a nicer bastard.

Someone asks me,

why I can’t just put my leftie liberalness aside,

for one day,

be proud,

patriotic,

love my country.

My country doesn’t love me,

and I’ve been a fool,

for one sided love,

one too many times,

but,

I love freedom,

I love peacetime,

I love Vera Lynn’s back catalogue,

in the sunshine,

so,

maybe this is where we sign,

some little piece of our own peacetime.

The Princess who would become a Queen,

wandered unseen,

among the cheering crowds,

forgetting the way that she’d play,

in lonely gardens,

lead in wounding gestures,

by her sinful, sympathetic uncle,

because,

there is a big difference between six,

and nineteen,

girls grow,

into women,

ladies,

leaders.

She celebrates her subjects,

singing merrily,

hands held,

with no barriers,

she is at one,

at last,

a juvenile, jewelled poppy in a field of peace.

Flags are high today,

because we forgot how to mourn.

This day has been a geyser of goodbyes,

grief,

guilt,

and then relief,

but now it is sandwiches on the streets,

singing songs we learned at school,

clapping,

then quietly standing,

fireworks and french fancies,

that we painted red,

white

and blue.

A victory,

only half won,

because we never stopped being at war.

Our enemies just went viral,

or sank into our skin,

seeping out as “I’m alright Jack” greed.

The children of the Blitz,

are now in our care,

but they freeze over winter,

with inefficient bus passes,

delayed pensions,

and unsafe housing.

There are tens of thousands dead.

I spy two magpies,

and I try to hope.

We defiantly sing “We’ll Meet Again”.

Maybe, it’s a lovely day tomorrow,

but as death tolls louder,

than we can sing,

in our lockdown love in,

I doubt it.