Black and sleek and quick as fire,
Lively as electric wire;
Sparking in the sun.
Leaps and walks the towering fence;
Imperious, in every sense
Queen of her garden.

Creatures cower, become her game;
Lazily she earns the name:
Dispassionate killer.
Yet time escapes her wicked claws,
Never feigns death in her jaws -
And slowly takes her.

Angular bones in a moulting sack,
Matted fur on her bent, ridged back -
Frightened eyes plead to me.
Slowly struggles to her feet,
Anytime is time to eat -
Always, always hungry.

Today she’s too tired to be fed,
Stumbles back into her bed
Pleads again, fights to breathe.
Weeping flesh and sores that run,
Time to sleep, my darling one -
Goodbye, Jess. Forgive me, please.

Who will send the spinning stones
Across the chaos of the road
To tumble through the slotted jaws of hell?
And who, with perfect measured stride,
Will step upon the other side
Before the killer crow can pass the post
And cast his dread satanic spell?
 
Who'll enumerate the railings' bars,
Approximate the speed of cars
By counting seconds till they disappear?
Whose finger-snap will always coincide
With kettle switch and - if they've tried -
Old Big Ben's chimes? Who'll conjure rhymes
That split her face from ear to ear?
 
Who'll tally bricks and estimate
A buildings volume and its weight
And time a rock's descent into the sea?
And who will check the altitude of birds and planes,
The height of trees and weather-vanes
If not me? There's a vacancy...
Oh, and they'll need
 
A needle eye to unpick the random tapestry
And sew her silhouette into their memory -
A stitch in time saves one -
And a pearly shell to catch her observations,
Gleaming drops of conversation,
Fresh as dew, transparent, true...
Who'll do these things when I am gone?

I did my bit to oil the tongue

And make it an informal one,

But if I’d known what I’d begun

I never would have started.

The ‘wi’ from I’ll, the ‘o’ from aren’t

Are AWOL with the ‘no’ from can’t

And e’er again I know I sha’n’t

See letters that departed.

,

 

 

The ‘v’ from ne’er gesticulates

And ‘ha’ from they’ve laughs in my face,

While I - that’s me - hang in their place,

A stitch between incisions.

The b’s’n on the fo’c’s’le stands,

A pile of letters in his hands,

Perplexing lubbers on the land

With five extreme omissions.

,

 

 

The Hilton houses ‘i’ from it’s

While ‘i’ from he’s hides in the Ritz;

I pull together all the bits

They readily deserted.

A crescent moon in lettered sky,

A prick in alphabetty pie,

I turn away, a winking eye

And chaos is averted.

,

 

 

I scratch then scribe the sheet to show

Where absent letters used to go

And thus let everybody know

That something’s missing for my pains.

Contractions brought about my birth,

‘twixt font and grave I’ve shown my worth:

To scatter symbols o’er the Earth

And free them from their paper chains.

 

‘I’ve learnt so much, please listen, son:
Don’t waste your life as I have done,
And don’t lose games you should have won
Because you weren’t prepared.
I fooled around, I missed the bus
And failed to do the obvious,
Now time is up for one of us…
I always was too scared

To put my neck upon the line
 - to err was not a mode of mine -
I ummed and ahhed without a spine,
Now learn from my stupidity.
I lacked the nerve, shied from the fight,
I frittered days and squandered nights,
I did what’s easy, not what’s right
And blew each opportunity.

Oh, God, I wish I could go back -
Regret’s a huge ungainly sack
To carry ‘round upon your back,
Especially when you’re old.
Mistakes are light, evaporate
With every new success. Don’t wait
For other souls to choose your fate -
For once, do as you’re told.

I was young, like you, but life is cruel
And hard and quick - I know that you’ll
Not be a disappointment to all
Your family. I’m so sorry…’
‘Thanks, Dad, but it’s too late - I’d be
A better man, but don’t you see
That, Dad, when you die, I do too
For I’m the boy inside of you.’

... well ...the diminishing cyclical nature of everything: from washing-up, to the creation and dissemination of sound; from Newton's balls, to the journey of an atom of water... actually, it started with a drop of water, and quickly expanded its horizons to the final running-down of the universe, when all energy is (is it? I'm no physicist) equally dispersed. It flowed through me so it’s mine, but it's flawed too, so I keep cutting, grafting and pruning: still needs a bit of work here and there; stutters a bit too, but so do I, so what would you expect; a work in progress, much like everything else around here.

 

Uni-verse

 

This

came from the washing-up -

wrote it down before the bubble burst.

It created its dripping self and ticked

in time with the unfolding universe,

then referenced my mundane task,

cycled forwards and in reverse;

wrestling with energy -

like Newton's balls:

equilibrium-cursed -

till gravity and the

cords that hang

us to the frame

of reality

showed

them

-selves

to

me

I could have been a professional footballer. The road to stardom split, fragmented or reached a cul-de-sac so many times that I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it all slipped away from me.  Maybe if I’d had those snazzy boots for my eighth birthday, or that 32-panelled plastic-coated football I craved the following Christmas… I lost my place in the school team through injury and then there was my cousin’s ill-timed wedding that robbed me of the next game in which I was selected... I was small for my age too and got pummelled by the older kids who despised my on-ball artistry. All those things – and more – knocked me off course. Individually, they were minute, barely noticeable deviations on the golden road to Wembley, but they eventually added up and contrived to cast me into the ditch of occupational triteness. But surely, with a bit of fortune, I could easily have clambered out?

I carried that conviction into my early twenties, turning out as fullback for a fairly successful Sunday league team. Professional scouts were known to cast their lines into those turbid waters and sometimes spotted a prize catch weaving effortlessly through the waves of mediocrity. It was just a matter of time before I would leap from the fetid ditch of the commonplace into the silver, sparkling waters of sporting excellence. Then I met Archie.

There are a lot of professional football teams in my corner of the globe; some would say too many. Most languish in the lower reaches of the league; unglamorous, unfashionable, yet still plodding on, a knot of faithful followers providing just enough backing to keep them afloat. Archie was of this world. He was a journeyman professional, doing a stint for most of the local teams at some time or other. I’d derided him, even booed him along with the rest of our long-suffering fans during his short time with my team. He appeared slow, both in mind and body. Often caught in possession and rarely doing anything creative, it was often a mystery why he was even on the pitch. He had no ‘artistry’ and was, at best, a destroyer, earning the nickname ‘Earthquake Archie’ for his clumsy crunching tackles. I could do better than that. My gran was better that that! He did the rounds, sank into non-league obscurity and I’d supposed that, when his legs had finally given up, he’d called it a day.

Another Siberian Sunday morning. Icily cold. The bristling wind that always drove down our valley and swept the smoke from the steelworks, was numbing my knees, fingers and nose as we trudged up to our elevated pitch. Once there, we were bitterly exposed. Clouds of condensation whipped from the mouths of hunched and shivering players. We kicked about in the muddy goalmouth while the ref called the captains to the centre circle for the coin toss. Our captain, Pete, came back to us, rubbing his hands, looking excited.
‘They won. We’re staying at this end, lads, kicking into t’ wind. Hey - guess who their captain is.’ We all looked again at the short, balding tubby bloke who’d just picked ends. I shook my head, but someone spoke up.
‘Well, bloody hell… it’s Archie… er… what’s-his-name, isn’t it? Christ, he must be forty something.’
‘At least. But look at his legs – they’re like bloody tree trunks!’
I was perplexed. Archie? What good would he be? He was useless when he was young – but now? I wondered for a moment if he might be doing a bit of undercover scouting, masquerading as a player while keeping an eye out for talent. Clever…

Straight from the kick-off, Archie got the ball. Well, it sort of went to him… seemed to love him. And he hardly ever looked at it, instinctively knew where it was; his head was always up, eyes darting everywhere, looking for the pass. That pass, between me and the centre half and onto the toe of their right winger who, according to the report in the local paper, ‘…seized onto Archie’s slide-rule through-ball and rippled the net with a powerful rising shot’. Our players bounced off him. He was very strong and, despite his appearance, still extremely fit. Every pass from either foot found its target. The pitch became a giant wheel. He was the hub, his passes were the spokes, and his feet alone applied the gas or the brakes. It all revolved around him. They got a free kick, about twenty-five yards out. We made a wall but it was ineffectual – the ball sailed over us and into the top corner. OK, Archie had the wind behind him, but he used it brilliantly. There was no elaborate celebration, only a wry smile as he turned to walk back into his own half for the restart.
‘A superb strike from outside the box gave The Blue Ball a commanding 2 – 0 lead at half time.’ Their players patted his back reverentially, nodded their heads at each other and smiled in satisfaction. What a player to have on your team. What a player! He eventually scored three without breaking sweat. They won 5 - 1.

The final whistle was a seismic blast. The earth shook and crumbled. Grass sods tore. Straight, limed lines distorted, stretched and vanished in the mayhem. Crossbars cracked like gunshots. A chasm opened. All of the pitch and all of me was consumed by the simultaneous dual destruction of solid ground and airy ambition. I suddenly stood at the bottom of a deep canyon, barely able to see the sky, and realised straight away that I was never getting out of there. This was my realm: only the gods walked atop. A short, portly figure stood on the edge looking down. He didn’t boo into the abyss, or say I was worse than his gran; he was quiet, respectful, reached down a long arm and warmly shook my hand.
‘Well played, son. Good game.’
It was only later that I realised Archie was standing in a canyon of his own, looking up at the likes of Bobby Moore, Alan Ball, Billy Bremner, Bobby Charlton…

‘It was a fantastic display by a consummate player, who, despite having retired from league football ten tears earlier, devastatingly highlighted the massive gulf between the professional and amateur games; the gulf that separates the truly gifted from the wannabes.’ I finished my regular weekly match report and posted it through the letterbox of the local paper. I didn’t even give myself a mention that week. It was all about Archie. Earthquake Archie.