The Track

  Darkness still remains regent

And I slip quietly from my bed,

Summoning the senior hound to join

My lonely and lovely journey.

Black magic silence beckons us

And how can we resist the call?

A slow and languid column of smoke

Rises quietly up into the navy sky,

Untroubled by any south-westerly,

As the early workers at the brewery

Conjure their intoxicating and celebrated drink.

Up behind Y Plas, I hear the rasping, gasping cough

Of Howard Griffiths, and sadly think

Tomorrow may not come for him.

Dawn is too sweet a word for the monochrome

And dismal scenes we race through.

My companion is like a small, pale ghost

As he forges ahead, his eyes glassy and other-worldly

In the sparse yellow light, chasing the host

Of night-time beings as they scurry away

Before the break of day.

The ancient railway has drifted from memory

But its spirit lingers on, with fragments

Of coal dust, weariness and a lust

For Felinfoel Double Dragon at the end of the shift.

Shadowy miners make their perpetual journey to the pit

Passing their own gravestones at Trebuan, oblivious to the present,

Forever trapped in a grim and sombre warp of time,

Hard-working faces blackened and caked in grime.

The cadaverous, grinning guard escorts this macabre host,

His smile never reaching his eyes.

I look , I see, I peep inside the secret lives

Of those who dwell quietly

Along the track of history and mystery and bikes and hikers....

They dwell snug and safe, houses warm and bright, and hug each other

Tightly and watch....

They live their lives on the other side, oblivious to the travellers,

The shivering movers in-between,

The people who walk and talk and cycle and dream their

Dreams along the eternal way from north to south

And back again.

They live their lives, and do not realise

What happens on the other side.....

A nappy, cereal and vest-clad child

Eyes fixed and wide,

Made blue and bold by the morning programme

As he watches entranced, standing firm

With his chubby flat feet and his baby shadow

Casting indigo bodies on the beige shag-pile.

The Night Garden holds him fast

While his knock-kneed stance denies him one last

Mouthful of that erstwhile warm and comforting slop

Called breakfast.

The subtle gradient speeds us along, down

Through serious trees and hedges, allowing

A swift and easy journey towards town.

The misty rain softens the air, Dog following

Closely, not daring to leave me amidst

The shadowy memories of the departing night.

A solitary cyclist fails to alert us of his silent approach.

We jump, hearts beating, eyes huge with fright

As the spectral form passes through into the cool, grey light.

The rugby field lies muddy and empty

Of the butch and blaspheming, lager-swilling

Players. Rivulets of water from last night's deluge

Run relentlessly down the grassy slopes, spilling

And splashing onto the orange-lit track,

Making pools of gold which soak my shoes.

The Llanelli Star lies sad and sodden on the ground

As befits the fate of yesterday's news.

We carry on, the rain in our faces, embracing the morning.

The awakening town stirs into reluctant life.

Bleach thrown over the speckled, splattered vomit,

By a man from Krakow, eradicates last night's feast,

And the shapeless dark form of a wicked hobbit

Obstructs our path, the wheelie-bin has its own persona

In the dim and chilly twilight.

Onwards, always south, the sky brightens,

The chill breeze quickens and the sound of the boat-train

Lends a melancholic strain

To the whole struggling, yawning scene.

We turn around, we head for home, with cold paws and fingers,

Not wishing to linger

A moment longer than we should.





Photography by  www.ken-mcdermott.com

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Sonia

Ten Minutes

                                                                                          

So cold, so cold.

My hands are so cold, and I cannot feel my feet.

My fingers and toes are numb

And I shiver, yet must succumb

To those men, those harbingers of my final heartbeat.

Spring sunshine never shone so sweet

Through that narrow gap in the wall.

May.  Spring.  I wish I may fly away from it all

And never return to this moment.

They are coming, I see them walk with purpose

Along the bright, green length of polite and courteous

Grass that will soon stain bright and red

With my innocent blood. Not guilty, not guilty.

My insistent pleas fall upon ears that will never listen.

I am caught in their treacherous web.

Like a moth, I flew too close to the flame and my wings

Are starting to burn.

I allow myself to be prepared

In sombre shift and gown. I wonder that

They allow me to be spared

The axe.

The patrician sword awaits my slim neck

And my mind cannot accept any of it.

Why bother? Why comb my dark and whorish hair?

For who will even care

When my white face gazes up in disbelief at the severed neck

Which lies bleeding on the straw.

Is it mine?

Today I will die, according to the law

Of this monster I once loved.

And still love; will always love

For the next ten minutes, which is all that remains

Until my spirit will fly like a dove

To God, if He exists.

Ten minutes.

My life is ticking away, I start to pray

For forgiveness, absolution  -  for retribution

Against this miscarriage of justice.

My ladies fuss about me, weeping softly

And I wonder at the fact that tonight                              

They will still be here, in the gently fading light

Of England’s purple dusk, when I am gone,
Like a reluctant child sent to bed, yet the party continues....

My sun sets already behind the lofty

Columns of men’s ambition.

How can I feel contrition?

The small life in my cell continues quietly,

The spider crawls silently, dispassionately

And a fly flits to and fro, oblivious

Of my complete and utter terror.

I smell the damp, the denial of spring-like warmth

As the knowledge of the horror

Of my last few minutes seeps slowly

Into my desperate consciousness.

I must wear a coif. My neck must lie exposed

To the swift and shining sword

As it flies humming through the air

And cuts cleanly like a butcher’s knife.

Severing my life.

Will I detect the metallic scent of blood

As it flows in a rushing, gushing flood

Before my fading, once-bright eyes?

My prison door opens.

I am ready.

I must keep my appointment with

Monsiuer Rombaud and his shining sword.

Farewell, my Lord, though you left me without a word.

Anne Boleyn

Gobbo the Yobbo

I watch the scene quite hidden, a covert

Observer of this puke-provoking , fury-promoting

Spectacle of filth and dirt.

The safety of my window serves to protect me

 From this tragi-comedy.

Here comes Neanderthal Yob,

Ejecting with expert skill

The sticky, flicky lump of gob

From his blaspheming mouth, seemingly at will.

Shoulders hunched, hood up,

Scowling at the ground;

Adolescent  loathsome pup –

Never failing to amaze and astound

Me with his sure and spiteful aim.

Such vitriolic venom emits from

His cat’s-bottom mouth,

And the nicotine-stained mucous

Speeds rapidly down south

Landing on the sad, submissive

Pavement, enriching the luscious

And ancient mosaic with another youthful masterpiece

Of delicate grey and viscous phlegm.

Depressed black joggers descend with relentless

Sorrow down his skinny, undernourished spine;

His lack-of-workman’s bottom  shines

 With spotty whiteness

Against the faded gloom of washed-out Calvin Klein

Boxers, and the soles of his trainers flap

Noisily in the wind of Station Road.

Telling tales of his sexploits, his wheels

And his very shady deals.

Seven days since his last baptism

In the steamy, slimy council-grimy bathroom

Renders his darkening crevices

Rank with the overripe bloom

Of a fungal invasion.

His intense frustration

At his lack of animal magnetism

Is as evident as his

Poor digestion.

But she finds him cute,

This bouncy pink babe with the large red rose

Sprawling its way across her spongy, pale bottom,

Her lurex thong dividing its vast expanse,

The fifty pence stud glittering in her retrousse nose.

She teeters behind him, pushing the pram of desperate hope,

Wishing he would look around and remember

She existed at all.

She gives him her credit, her vouchers, her plump willing body

And her benefit money

Which he rightly deserves, in his miaow-muddled mind;

He gives her a bruise, a kid and the clap

And he thinks it’s funny

When she starts to cry

At the sheer despair of it all. But she stays.

“Cos I loves ‘im, see, like.”                 

Up the street they continue their journey,

Their unison in their warped microcosm

Almost touching in its pachydermatous pathos,

Getting smaller  and disappearing around the corner

Of  Station Road.

A symbiotic organism,

A strange elitism,

And all hope lost.

I turn away.

Mrs McDermott makes me some tea.

The Pleiades

The Pleiades Fell To Earth

Such bright and sparkling light,

so many crystalline fragments of stellar blue and white

fell to earth last night.

A Standard Explosion lit up the sky

with all the guaranteed thrill and skill of a brilliant

and divine symphonic orchestrion.

I searched the midnight sky for my sisters.

Had they rushed from their snug sorority,

their exclusive solidarity,

to blast my struggling planet with their fierce and searing fire?

Where had those shimmering siblings chosen to land?

Were they lying simmering hotly on the sands

of the indifferent Nile?

Or did their splendid spangles spin and twirl

around the hurly-burly of Pigalle’s pavements,

landing unnoticed on the arrondissment

of vibrant and hedonistic life?

But I wanted them to land on me.

I wished for a crown of fire to illuminate

my humdrum life, my tiresome, tedious and strife-driven

existence of work and care and sorrow and conscience-driven

daily grind.

I wished for some scintillating spark to ignite my

despairing mind.

I wished for the inspiration

of some other-worldly, super-human

and intuitive woman

to fill me with hope and understanding.

Tonight I look up at the midnight sky.

I sigh.

My seven sisters.

They are still there to comfort.

They never fell at all.

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Red Room

The red room closes in

And forces me out into

The silent din

Of the freezing street.

The quiet overwhelms me and

My cold ears are deafened

By the watchful, staring stars.

The snow-moussed cars

Are still, and the sliver of silver

Who calls herself a moon,

That watchful mother, that scornful other

Parent who knows me oh, so well,

Simply stares down at her shivering daughter.

I look down                          

At the twinkling  town

Where I was born, where I grew up

And branched out, blossomed and threw up

Occasionally, after a good night out

With the girls, in the Camelot,

Sir Kissalot being renamed Sir Missalot

As he stood me up for the twentieth time.

Olde English cider geared us up, providing the fire

For our hedonistic souls and the ache for our heads

In the morning.

I live on an island above the streets,

Always longing, yearning for the past,

Those years which raced away too fast.

Watching the present, but seeing the sweet

Youthful scenes, the ambitious dreams

Which came and went.

My heart lies deep in the centre of this night-time town,

Where the snow has turned to muddy brown

And people can walk and text without falling.

I can hear the drunken revellers calling

Out to each other, quarrelling

Over the last taxi, the last dance, the last kiss.

My thoughts fly swiftly over the roofs,

The sparkling, icy fields

And softly settle once more above the place which

Holds me captive.

They hover there, hoping to heal

The desire in my restless soul.

My silver cord is stretched, my furtive

Search is fruitless, the past has gone

Forever