and then they disappear

watching us is hard
we watch the guards

their comings and goings
watch without watching

till something shifts
all hell breaks loose

and some poor sod
gets busted ribs

gets broken teeth
gets theirs

and those of us who care
who think we care

but dare not say

briefly look
before we look away

I used to be in the fruit and veg game

No, Reg, you worked at ASDA

but I worked on the fruit and veg

Yes, Reg, you worked on the fruit and veg
the fruit and veg at ASDA

'I can't sit down
I can stop, me
once I get going
I've got to finish
get the job done
all in one go
I don't know why
it's just the way I am
some kind of human dynamo'

he appears in fragments

the Burma Star Memorial Fund
seeking to verify him

membership number W/789/56
Sgt VSM Wheeler, deceased

1st Gloucestershire Regiment, 1939-42, and then
9th Gurkha Rifles, Corps of Clerks, 1942-44

(captured, he worked the railway
found God inside a jungle)

there, in the local rag
his ordination, Durham, 1950

the Reverend Vere Stewart Manton Wheeler
to give him his full moniker

a few short lines in 'The Old Rencombian'
tells of his leaving, as Rector

returning to Burma
'at the request of the Bishop of Rangoon'

his gift to my father,17, The Book of Common Prayer (A&M)
Queens Coronation ed. 1953

and briefly in my 60's childhood
rare visitor, seen but twice

a gentle, bookish sort, with specs
in tweeds and brogues, wreathed in smoke

(West Bank 2024)

with a little land
an outbuilding or two
a small orchard
a handful of fig trees
a few vines
some hens
a goat or two
and a family
all in one place

on the back of the t-shirt
of the woman at the bar
who should have been swimming
but worked too late tonight

'you can't drink real ale
from a plastic glass
even a plastic glass that's hard
a glass that looks like real glass
it isn't right
it's wrong, really wrong
it's not just wrong
it's an abomination'

if it's a bout churches
then it's dusk
dusty hassocks
dust in the vestry
damp stone
flaking lime-wash
foxed paper
burnt wax
font and pulpit
a tired organ
a brass cross
bells, of course
columns, the roof
an upturned boat
and wood
wood in the pews
perhaps a rood screen
a padlocked box
slate and lead
and light
streaming light
coloured and plain
Christopher carries the child
across the torrent
Mary simpers
Angels wield sword and flame

there, in the front pew
dressed in his Sunday suit
grieving his grandmother
wearing her silver cross
shaking, wrecked by it all
and I think, poor little bastard
as I watch him drowning
rivers of tears
rivers and rivers
becoming a flood

a passing car hoots
the pub slowly emptying
as moody Bob, angsty Bob
Highway 51 Bob
serenades the leavers
and the lonely barman
collecting empties
who likes the anger in the song
the slackness
how it only just holds
turns the organ parts up to ten
but doesn't care for the harmonica
Bob's annoying suck and blow
would miss it at all
thinks, artistically, it's all a bit you know
a bit unnecessary
an embellishment too far