The clock’s being replaced
on Uckfield High Street,
under Emergency Orders
it’ll now strike thirteen,
and then in line
with the ‘Bill of No Rights’
you’ll get a timely vote,
but only if you’re white.
The people of Uckfield
will sleep easier this week,
clocks will chime thirteen,
they’ll dream in doublespeak.

New story HERE

I was taught to spot the imperfect years
by measuring, with eye and finger
the varied distances, the thicknesses
of those concentric, almost-whirled,
bark-marked lines in the bared-ankles
of cut trunks: Dendrochronology.

Counting back, to before I was born,
my smooth fingers touched the years,
and Dad recalled a distant summer
without enough rain (‘see the thin ring’),
when he felled a malicious child,
dragging him by the handy straps
of handed-down dungarees
through a dusty field of soft cow pats,
that bully face down, Dad ploughed
shit down his bib: he marked him.

At the bottom of Lime Tree Avenue
a bared examination of that past
with the removal of another tree,
rotten, untrusted to be above us,
all that is left is the raw-sawn stump,
of over a hundred imperfect years,

and I cannot touch the ring he was in,
as my finger is now too thick and rough.

Here’s my retreat,
here’s where I go,
this mug, this refill
of purchased repose;

Louche between low chats
of fat latte ladies,
opposite capped men,
brusque and too matey:

Aglow screen readers,
the Twitter typed lovers,
drugged kids in buggies,
under suffocate of covers;

a blind date, or business,
a couple here meet,
slow in the choosing –
What the f*ck to eat?

I am served by angels
in tight branded aprons,
when they offer the menu
my life is then taken.

Waiting for Mum
in his buffed-up car,
but she wasn’t impressed
by his Jaguar:
She only wanted
his undivided time,
no matter which brand
in which he arrived.

I am that bent man in the long raincoat,
with a bagged bottle, my red antidote:

I am stick-led past the bar lessee,
still struck by his loss of an apostrophe;

in there a couple, I fished from reflections,
looked me just once, then resumed conversation.

I crossed shone tarmac onto grey matt stone,
that moment I gripped, not quite alone:

In the small park under rain-weighted trees,
I found my own place below the bent canopy,

with shelter from the worst, poor-afforded below,
I turned into an old man, and walked home alone.

The flying rats circle over K.C. News,
roosting at night, dropping off their poos,

layering the slabs in a grey film of crap,
then off to the Post Office, to deliver more on that.

We need a Dad’s Army to defend our streets!
To patrol the pavements, with an eye out for shit:

Imagine the scenes, on Uckfield’s wide paths,
a platoon of pensioners blasting the pigeons apart!

I am sat on a bench
in Elizabeth Gardens –
that irregularly manicured
Jubilee remnant

I hear the thrum-engine –
the Uckfield to London line –
low tremors from the station
with both of us resting

but then she shunts loudly
on her commuted haul
and with my gripped pain
I stand – stiff – but resolved

that my own departure
is kept to a timetable –
one promised to my wife
at my bench-long halt

You go ahead – I need to rest
and I watched her walk on
with the dog – and its pull
Me – re-scheduled to then follow

E311219

Sat down, Grandma,
Grandson, and Mum,
Grandma, huffily:
‘No point sat by ‘im!’
Grandson, grumpily:
‘I’ll be on me phone..’
Grandma grunts,
Mum checks her own,
and Mum reads out
a Facebook feed;
the tired waitress
tries to intercede,
placing before them
menu boards,
waiting for her voice
to now be heard
above that of Grandma’s
moan about stuff:
‘It wasn’t like this,
when we grew up!’
Mum, now bored:
‘The world’s moved on!’
Grandma, resigned:
‘When I’m gone…’
Grandson, buts in:
‘Can I bags your phone?’

It’s so early,
the dog isn’t roused,
and the sluggish heating
is yet to announce.
But you pull on boots,
purchased for this,
and wrap the coats,
as the cat insists.

Continue reading “Protected” →

That short walk
past the Cinque Ports,
and the neighbouring hit
off pizzas and chips;
left at traffic lights
allowing the right
to walk due south,
past the Picture House,
branded both sides,
and the library lies,
awaiting budget-chops
along with the shops,
and dull retail banks,
even Pizza Express:
‘For Sale’ glowed homes
for too many pounds,
then, more bloody chips,
fat wafts opposite
the old post office,
and our town square,
still empty, still there.

The drunks’ bench
affords the best view
of this day’s end:
Ceased opening hours,
as the evening drags
the short-cooled sun
down behind the black
of the silhouette-town,
and those profiles of trees,
bare, I once copied down,
from I-Spy in the Wood.

With my therapist,
a genial chap,
we sit and review
my quality of chat;

a bit of a struggle,
with my stinking cold,
an incurable disease,
which has now taken hold:

In the near distance,
two floors below,
a howl of laughter
is loudly let go,

then back to peace,
as my therapist stammers,
r-r-r-repeated advice,
and nice bedside manners.

I sat on the drunks’ bench,
near the ever-overflowing bin,
shadowing that worn patch
of pressed mud, shit-tinged.

This sitter’s view, skewed,
a beer-distorted luxury,
beside dried bird muck;
a far Tannoy says ‘Sorry..’

Further on the meadows’ path
bushes are clean-picked,
the bearing branches snapped,
stamped back, welly kicks,

where pie-makers,
and black-fingered kids,
thorn-pricked, with sucked cuts,
have harvested:

They have filled, lid-shut,
Tupperware containers,
loaded up September’s
sweet black scratch crop.

Then, the smell of weed,
and it is not Japanese,
the path is now a trade route
for teenagers’ to please:

The three lads pass me,
space for the sad bloke,
with cocksure strides,
and the exhalation of smoke

which we old imbibe,
those sweet fumes of youth,
one so deeply inhales,
bench-sat, wine-abused.

Simple headstones, dated,
only affording initials,
‘Katie’ could afford the time
to scratch her’s on the face
of the screwed lead plate,
her vertical memorial
before she gets to die;

and the tramp, with a cycle,
lay his copper-only coins
across his palm, not enough
to grant his inner fortune-teller
any hope of good news:
Under his stained hat and beard
there crosses a longer story.

The white line men,
with a truck of cauldron
and flame,
lay chalk lines of intention,
then the fine art,
application by hand,
tool, and technique,
to use the drips
along the straight sure
toe-pegged wood strip;
with an eye for their line
and for the cars’ crossing –
before dried.

Stiffly drinking flat beer, atop the bar stool,
posted there by his inability to stand, even sober,

but, still, with a quick arm, a lifting pitch
of pint upon pint, as old thoughts limped,

like his legs did, on his way to this mounted spot,
bar side, beer-mat marked, holding a high court.

As drinkers washed in and out, to and from
the smokers’ yard, his thoughts bloated

with his supped pints – the warm gut hit
of bitter and crisps – sending him off again

to 1953, when he danced to rock and roll,
on The Pier, years before it fell into the sea.

I can no more shop in Millets,
the sartorial choice of men,
where shorts are twenty quid,
but such shopping trips must end!

She Who Must Be Obeyed
is getting rather strict,
my clothes should be top labels –
the ones that she will pick.

So throw out my Peter Storm,
discard my beige collection,
no more windproof anoraks –
blown away by her rejection:

Instead it’s top notch brands,
to be found on our High Street,
but only if they’re second hand,
costing no more than five quid.

He was bent to his shovel work,
on the hottest day of the year

as age raised a dark vest of sweat,
soaking a shadow across his chest:

He stopped to chat, resting too heavily
against the swing, and as we talked

the roped seats oscillated under his
transmission of low energy,

Newton’s Law imposed where he leant,
part-recovered from his shovelled work,

whilst his girls lay immobile in the shade,
which he had previously made.

I was up with the light air
before this day’s sunrise
as the heat broke    with
a burglar’s threat

but just

itch-shifting curtains on the sash
and a thud    by the unseen flow
further through the house
which had to be examined
a door to be stopped

because the kids would not

they would sleep through
anything   like this intrusion
of a breeze’s soft thuds

The hall returned to its rented state
by the party’s emptying,
re-stacked stiff back plastic chairs,
and nothing remained of them:

Swept, bagged, and loaded out,
nothing, nothing, except the echoes
of friendships forged in parties,
trips, fights, and school classes.

There, for me, a preview – end-of-term,
of their school, those rooms,
at the epi-centre of their lives:
Swept, bagged, and loaded out.

Over Buxted, into folklore,
our sniggered-search for Nan Tuck,
the ghost of those woodlands,
a crone, flown from The Uck.

We set out as useless hunters,
on her kindling-carpeting,
the coppice of nervous laughter,
with hid fears half-echoing:

‘A dearth of any wildlife,
where Nan Tuck’s spirit waits’,
but we disturbed a leaping deer,
and were stabbed by beaked complaints.

No fearsome witch, no spells,
no cackle, no dark arts,
but stepping back onto tarmac,
we walked calmer down that path.

Ullage, the short difference,
to be re-recorded
in a skinny red book,
stood soberly-vertical,
behind a jar of slippery
pale-pickled eggs;

there’s many Bar Rules
about equal measures,
keeping this club in order,
but an occasional shadow
re-states the cellar’s height,
corner-of-the-eye stuff,

CCTV captured, she said,
orbs floated, inflated,
whilst, creaking, overhead,
actual timbers and joints groan,
a true, structured tale
of cat-slide reconstructions:

Here the beer tastes great,
priced right, served with grace,
as aged patrons, oft-glued
to the re-drawn-football,
never lose sight of old mates,
and a ghost is welcome,
as our own spirits ruminate.

The gates needed painting,
rusted red – shameful shades,
the kick-chipped exit railings
begged for a uniform coat of paint.

Hardy souls took up the shout,
to buff Manor’s roughened fences,
a slog of slap and weeding,
and school was reinvented!

Some may notice our efforts,
and other parents may walk by,
but down there, at knee-height,
kids’ll see that we have shined.

So pick up a brush, or shovel,
get down to your local school,
tidy up the walls and railings –
it’s what life’s taught you to do!

this slight evening
under a canopy

served fish dishes
and poured short stories

of brief failed marriages
and drunken adolescences

I look at these friends
my evening romances

Another charity shop has opened up,
its shelves already whiff with stock,

featuring Atwood’s ‘Alias Grace’,
and the lower-shelved words of Peter James;

his ranking fixed by alphabetic rules,
although Margaret does classier vowels.

Pressed shirts hang, stiff with starch,
whilst dead man shoes no longer dance;

A range of aged prints catch the eye,
Picasso hangs, yours to buy;

Retired golf clubs stand on guard,
their shine worn down, over par;

That jug you gave to your old friend Jane,
she’s re-donated, so you buy it again.

That occasional sighting
of high-visibility
stepping down
the High Street

two school classes
under guidance
across junctions
with due care

whilst us
the relative elderly
stood aside
from the excitement

which snapped
baby-toothed
with hunger
for learning.

Snogging, lips and faces,
a quick public grope,
outside Cinque Ports,
on the disabled ramp’s slope.

In the grip of booze-lips,
almost locked intercourse,
without talking, just tasting,
tongued pints, and some shots.

I am wobbly, walking home, some late o’clock,
a trespassed short-cut over dampened grass

through this estate of town-planned care:
No roads, paths only to lamp-lit porches

as cars sit, misted, braked on verges.
The street light’s spill, a dry amber pool,

me, sense-struck by the waft of cuttings;
I am re-routed, indirect, by a solitary tree,

it’s stillness shocked, split, by a pigeon’s clap,
it disturbed by my standing, or my breathing?

The momentary effect, combined, then leading
to my old flight to Israel – picked fruits, sun-browned,

lawn-fronted homes, of sprinkler’s ticker-sound:
Same lives parked, people air-conditioned,

sat lamp-lit, the sole indication
of life struck by us, flighted, but never leaving.

Gravel Voices

Jean’s gravel route,
no different to ours,
just an over-the-road
distance.

Trodden, it sounds like
a pre-school shaker,
the one the lucky kids
were given.

Step-fade-step,
across her driveway,
whilst our one,
a road width closer,

is louder recall
of kid-invaded,
beach steps,
when shingle slid

into the curled
picnic rug’s weave,
as our burnt parents
pebble-pinned it all.

Making Hay

I headed down
the High Street,
sloped to the river,
baked, dust-blown,

everything diverted,
almost deserted;
the traders forgiven
for early closing.

My small-change
pet shop purchase,
fed an empty-rung,
receipt-rolled, till,

But,
an exchange of value:
We talked about skydiving,
John Noakes,
and column-climbing.

Those shaded contractors
blasted sand off pavements,
and I headed home,
only hay-weighted.

I stood, stock, in the road,
arms wide, an amateur Christ,
awaiting another crucifixion,
to be run-down, lifted,
cross-heist,

only to allow a mother,
flagged by three kids, a buggy,
to cross in that turned-in place,
to be safely, again,
path-unhurried:

Stared at, over-steered wheel scowls,
by you school-drop drivers (the worst);
can you please deposit your kids
on a far (distant)
verge.

No wonder your grunty, flaccid, son
demands his own car “for sixth form”:
Your poor lad enjoys
uber-time – Mum’s taxi, always,
the driven norm.
 

Waved off sounds,
our wireless re-casts,
‘Uckfield FM’,
over transmission masts,

from studios atop
Bird-in-Eye’s view,
back to this town,
washed by the Uck’s abuse;

whilst the voices, radio,
and on-line, exude
their playlist of music,
a light interlude,

of features, information,
a local voice,
this station tuned-in,
to Hobson’s Choice;

requests, interviews,
and warm chat too,
Uckfield FM –
who needs Radio 2?

Plans made today, to move my shed:
turn, pull, place, via grease-sleeper sled.

Tirfors engaged, off discussed points:
Fears for the shed’s, and my stiff joints.

Stress on structures – bodies and boards
– distributed off two steel cords.

To then be towed, in slow-motion;
slow-drawn drags, on fag-backed notions.

Each inch of shifting-movement, slow,
a daunting five metres to tow.

All grinding, groaned slid hours we pull,
could conspire in my sledged-shed’s fall.

The stoic Lollipop Lady,
Manor’s stick-wielding boss,
she was out in all weathers,
the snow, rain, and frost.

Her high-vis personality,
cheery, loud, and with grace,
giving rat-run drivers
her glared look-of-disgrace:

With waved magic baton,
she guided kids safely across –
the missing Lollipop Lady
is Manor’s greatest loss.

Yellow paint
in paralleled-pairs,
the parking lines
will appear;

all being ‘good’,
bad-parked are slapped,
with a fat fine –
tickets wrapped.

The new parking zone
will span Uck to Ouse,
privatised wardens,
in uniformed blues:

Pacing side streets,
in ‘bounty-hunt’ mode,
leaping on the parked:
‘I stopped to unload!’

Our future is fine,
thirty days to pay up,
but don’t park in Uckfield,
it has just been shut.

The new Uckfield car park, laid out carefully,
with too many spaces, commuter-empty,

A groovy idea: car-less spaces become,
a grey-surfers’ skate park for some OAP fun!

Beige-age skaters would form an orderly queue
lined up, loose-limbed, to go skateboarding anew,

each of them hard-helmeted, and elbow-strapped,
they would say: ‘It’s way cool’, then sneek a cat-nap.

On waking, a leisurely pre-skate tea break,
then rolled oldies mount boards, and partake;

a no-brainer for sure: the benefits are many,
and our cash-strapped council don’t spend a penny:

Lined up along the fence (after too much tea),
they add car park odours: emergency-wees.

The council, please, agree to skate parks for all,
It’ll encourage the beige-aged to stay way cool.