August 11th, 2007

Strange Days

                                     STRANGE DAYS


                                    There are always parts of your own town

                                    You've not seen before- ribbons of meadow

                                    Between estates where dusty old horses

                                    Whisk at their flies, unbuilt upon hillocks

                                    With countrified names, a cemetery

                                    With a more than lifesize trooper stood

                                    On a marble plinth.  At Leesfield church

                                    I read the graves.  I got one wrong

                                    Because of the dirt that had filled up the lines.

                                    "Thou art about my path" it said.

                                    I read, "Thou art a loving bath"-

                                    Which I rather like.  By the south wall

                                    Lay a man who was born with the Marseillaise,

                                    Who'd seen the skies of his village bleared

                                    By the cotton mills and died in the year

                                    Of the Mutiny.  The man's full name-

                                    I wonder how he came by it

                                    And how he graced it-  was Strange Mayall

As Much As I Care To Put On Record

When I moved in here 21 years ago I was with Chris. We were both coming from a bad place and she was my best buddy and I was her rescuer. We called it love and it didn't last very long. Her kids hated me and we had different goals in life. I was on my way to becoming a witch and she wanted to be  "normal".

It was all very painful. Notice how I'm not going into any detail. Those things are for the judgement hall of Osiris not  LJ.

You'd think I'd dream about her, but I don't. What I dream about is being a clergyman- which goes to show that being a clergyman was a lot worse than being in a fucked up relationship- and quitting the church and getting together with her was a step in the right direction.

We lost touch many years ago. And that's as it should be. Move on, keep your eyes on the prize, don't look back.  Someone told me she'd found herself a significant other and I hope that's true and she's happy.



It’s odd how you can live with a person

Three full years and remember so little...


The very first Christmas I spent with her

I went for a walk in the hills on my own

(It was very damp. It was very still)

Which was cruel of me, but we’d come together

Through need and not from the fellow feeling

That makes a marriage.


                                      She’d crisp, thick hair

And very small breasts (she was bothered about them),

Secrets too that she wouldn’t share,

Which ate her up.


                   At the end she remarked

In a choked back voice, it was thanks to me,

Because I was callous and wouldn’t work,

That she’d gained the bottle to fend for herself.

This hurt at the time, but I think, on reflection,

I did her no harm.


                             It was sex that kept us

Sweet for so long. I remember dragging

Her orange trousers down round her knees

And doing it scratchily, standing up,

In a big, old  rhododendron bush

One thirsty summer’s afternoon

In the early days. She was flighty then.