POETRY

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Dad! Had he lived, my Father would’ve been 105 on April 13th.
My Father was a member of The Polish Air Force, stationed in the UK. Demobbed, after the Second World War, he had to work as a window cleaner as he could not immediately get work as an engineer.

BRIEF ENCOUNTER

My father : slower now,
grey haired – stooped, past seventy —
retains the body of an active man.
Hands still powerful are now impaired —
a tremor frustrates delicate work.
He watches as I set the ladder straight
and climb stiff legged to reach the sill.
First I locate a place to grip, then clean the pane.
My tentative reach with soapy sponge,
cack-handed smear with squeegee,
from other men would bring disdain —
"Let's have a go, I know the game," is all he says.

Scorning my tools he fetches chamois and scrim,
the very same that in the past have seen
thousands of windows pristine clean.
Leaded or shop glass — all the same to him;
bays and bows, fanlight or mullion he has cleaned.
Ignoring feeble protests he swarms
the ladder with a practised tread.
Years slip away with every step.
Transformed : muscle memory conjures up
this younger man still working at his peak —
as he'd been when I was just a lad.

Balancing and stretching, further he sways,
reaching to the window's distant edge.
Rhythm and power; economy in every stroke,
this craftmanship admired below.
Ten feet above my head I watch his flow :
balance, grace, confidence — decisiveness with every pass —
sureness of touch I couldn't match.
And I am grateful when he's through
for cleanliness of glass - a job well done —
and sharing with me this hidden younger man I knew.

GOOD FRIDAY

Beneath sad skies and gently falling rain,
the only sound the joyous song of birds
on air so still no breath of wind can stir
the late spring trees unfurling fresh green leaves.

A charm of finches flashes gold and red
towards the valley where hedged blackthorn blooms;
up on the hill, wet glazes plough’s fine tilth
and cowslips thrive beneath the plum and pear.

A slick of oil washes down the lane,
rain heals gouged verge where dying nettles lie,
a shattered grill and glass spill from the ditch
near scattered flowers from a last “goodbye.”

WHEN AMBER LEFT

She left behind a trail of glinting light.
Marking each place where she had stepped, sequins
shine up like tiny sparkling jewels from mats,
carpet and chairs. Shed with each dancing step,

each twirl, each laugh, it was the magic trail
from Disney’s fairy wands, flashing down
to trace her joy in this new princess dress,
the one she hoped the Easter Bunny’d bring.

It’s true the label warned, Decorations
May detach when washed, but not from joyous
prancing… Like Cinderella I sweep up
and watch my busy Dyson’s innards gleam.

SEEING THINGS

In candy pink and bridal white
the orchards high on Winters Hill
stand proud against a cloudless sky –
define this fine St. George’s Day.

Close by the bridge, at Spencer’s church,
a red cross flutters in the breeze;
first swallows turn above the Thames
where swan flotilla glides downstream.

A solitary boat drifts on;
two walkers, with a map and dog,
seem set to walk on to Bourne End,
leaving behind a crow and me…

Perched on a rotting willow trunk,
nodding and bowing to the stream,
he seems to concentrate so hard
watching the water’s glassy sheen.

Then, suddenly, he takes to flight –
matching his wing beats to the breeze,
he seems to hover in the air
and touch the tops of waves mid-stream

to snatch from waters some small prey.
Retiring to the other bank,
he eats his meal in privacy
before returning to his tree.

Twice more this fishing crow performs
then flies off to a distant oak –
leaving in mind a miracle :
a memory, a puff of smoke.

DANGEROUS LIAISONS

All night soft rain. A bloodshot dawn
prompts birdsong where a constant veil
of droplets from new leaves softens
earth, settles dust, brings out small snails.

This white lipped, banded colony
abandons cover beneath trees,
heading across the viscous ground
to glide towards a concrete quay.

And there, in such an open place,
these secret creepers choose to meet :
erotically they weave in pairs
till bonded closely by their feet.

So joined — tight gripped — they're unaware
of distant thunder drawing near,
far too involved in their embrace
these molluscs fail to sense or hear

the pounding of athletic shoes
as Harriers run their annual race...
Snails in flagrante disappear :
a province wiped out without trace.

BOYS TOYS

Identified by her tattoo –
the clichéd lyric on her arm’s
sad irony was missed by friends –
Always true, devoted to you.

Their posters covered all her walls,
their music was her waking day,
filling her head and i-pad screen –
she had no time for other dreams.

For hours she’d wait outside hotels
or scream with others by stage doors,
hoping to be the chosen one
and hear the man say, “Come this way.”

The boys were crude, took what they could,
then laughed at her embarrassment
and in no time, when they got bored,
they pushed her, crying, out the door.

“Misadventure,” the inquest claimed.
The band had flown off to the sun
before the missing girl was found…
The un-manned crossing took the blame.

TO THE FARM

We are going to the farm.
We are going to the farm today.
“Which farm?” people ask.
“Which farm?” the children say.
WHICH FARM?
The only farm,
the only FAMILY farm in England.
Shut behind a barbed-wire fence,
under the floodlights, CCTV;
on the hillside,
the only family farm
in England, in England.

We are going to the farm,
and we must get there on time.
First, we went to the town centre
where we booked our tickets
for today’s only bus to the countryside.
The drive out of town was slow,
slowed by potholes,
slowed by cyclists,
slowed by a 20 limit all the way…

And now we are driving through Raynerland —
bulldozed flat, no hedges or trees,
scaffolding and bricks, piles of sand
for houses to be built,
when the strike is finished…
and the men come back to work.

We have reached the countryside
and soon we will be at the farm on the hill.
This is Farmer Milliband’s land
where he farms the wind and the sun.
See his tall pylons stride across the land,
there are his solar panels and giant windmills.
But Farmer Milliband will be sad,
it is still and grey today – like yesterday
and, again, his windmills won’t turn…

But, what is this? The bus has stopped.
In the distance we can see the farm on the hill,
Farmer Bull’s red tractor in the field,
lots of smoke and pyres burning behind the hedge.
There is a barrier across the road
“NO ENTRY,” says the sign, “DEFRA.”

It is a pity, we are disappointed,
we can’t go to the farm, the farm on the hill.
We must go home, do something else today,
go home, go home for today.
We cannot hear the farmer, in his farmhouse,
gun in hand, remark sadly to himself,
“I am finished, cattle and farm died today...”

With apologies to Alan Brownjohn

BACK THERE...

From London town, by car or train,
he’s following graffitied curve
and westwards, far beyond drab flats
to solitude and country lanes.
Corduroy fields are ploughed by teams,
he’ll breach a circle of blue hills
towards a river, long and dark
with Spring tides, elvers, chub and bream.

Canal joins river forming a port —
now heritage site and tourist lure.
Cathedral City, linked to kings,
history and inns (the ancient sort!) —
familiars since he was small.
So much remembered — but it’s changed!
Bustling strangers fill the town
yet ghost-like friends he still recalls.

He recognises cherry and white —
supporters going to the match,
to their cathedral in The Shed
roaring their team on to new heights.
Pedestrianized those “gated” streets —
urban crowds now fill The Cross —
and like The Quays, down at the docks,
the town’s the place to shop and meet.

Hordes live beyond the City’s bounds
where new estates spread like a web
on land once used for growing crops —
farm land he’d known when just a kid.
He’d packed his toys and kissed his Gran —
they were moving far away…
You can take the boy from Gloucester’s town,
but not take Gloucester from the man.