Mother and Child

Slunked – almost cursed
being its low artfulness
among suburban yards
and spade-ruled beds –

brushing its rusted pelt
and curling as if a stole
fixed around that fat neck
of some awful woman

There was a dead cub –
clubbed and bloodied
by a car – or a truck –
on that stretch of road

from Lewes to Glynde –
Still intact – but still dead
as rushed traffic passed
without crushing it – yet

Estate Agents

Those virgin fence panels went up
on both sides of our scored land
as flimsy ramparts to mark out

your own extents and hard edges
before our house – our home – is split
by an auction – of sorts – of blind bids

You tipped complaining barrows of earth
into a hired skip and into low indents
as you oversaw each shored footing

for fifteen freshly hewn fence posts
and at least a thousand splinter risks –
you put everything in a fixed place

after your tie-knotted estate agents
had advised you on such necessary repairs
to achieve the best price possible

now that you no longer wish to live
in this haunted house with me
and with my unmet Ghost of the Future

Hawkers

Our frail back door sat double-locked
as I did not want another invasion
of pitched voices from passing-by
knocking salesmen

Her cheeping sister and clucking mother
hammered loudly – an unhoped arrival –
with hops inwards and trite explanations –
Them: Some small gifts for the birthday girl!

Me: Sorry – She’s at school
They were here for mere seconds –
slipping gift knots and propping cards
My offer of lattes was not taken up

Because they were –
In such – such – a rush
Our sat dog and I were stumped
by their removal to a local hostelry

when we do
a damn fine cup of coffee
and have our kind selves
as such – such –¬†great company

As If She Had Struck Herself

Banshee my first thought –
followed by lunatic
and then spitting feathers
but was spitting nails better?

Her hand was sudden –
flat – iron-hard on my face
in such a swift upper arc
It was well-practised –

she was beating
every man and boy
who had ever dare ignore
her high pitch of orders

Those grey eyes revealed
a fleeting wince –
as if she had struck
herself with this hate

An instant recoil
of her upper body
as her buckshot rebut
kicked her back

And every crease
on her lined face
doubled up
She had struck herself

Your Dog Leash

As your Anacreon
I still say –
Keep on making
common mistakes

Dear Philomedes
do not let them
now burden you
with their regrets

They will pull on you
like my sculpting string –
binding you – stinking –
buried in another’s bed

stuck between sex work
and rattled corporate travel –
amid that hot seethe
in their holy places

Admit your error –
as it is if their praise
Your family are your enemy
by those cries of pain

found in child birth’s
one-sided game
It was handed down
by your foul-mouth mother

who uses the N-word
far too freely
I will not write out
her sparkling excuses

I seek my pleasures –
no had-I-wist words –
before a rogue seed
takes my ill-held throat