WALTON-ON-THE-HILL
On Saturday, complacent and unkind,
He stops behind. Can’t recall why. Just does.
They’d stay for tea, a ritual well refined
By years of love – all care and calm, no fuss.
Egg sandwiches, oatmeal and lemon cakes,
With chocolate fingers, cocktail sausages,
Brown hula hoops, Ribena … a heart breaks -
too late he looks up, realises it’s his.
They’d raid the shed for bikes, for balls and nets,
Run themselves red and break the genteel air.
He stayed at home that time. He still regrets
The age it fell, the callow lapse of care.
An empty chair, all festive spirit sapped,
It’s Christmas soon, her gifts already wrapped.
BENICASSIM
It’s possible I danced once. In a tent
Long after midnight, no one looked or heard.
It’s not recorded, yet I swear I spent
A half life on the floor of the absurd.
It’s possible I found, for once, the groove
For half a bar or so. Like this. Oh yeah,
I’m moving, like a stone allowed to move,
or like a judge with license not to care.
I danced once, at a disco, eyes half-shut
And ears enfolded by the freedom I’d
Refused to own ‘til then. Can’t prove it but
I felt it, and that freedom’s mine to hide.
I danced once for a lifetime all alone
With all the other dancers on their own.
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