Roll

Coming off a fell

at the end of an autumn walk

when kids aged 10 or under

sense there’s no more talk;

go horizontal,

roll downhill in spinning wonder.

 

Shout and giggle, twist

in mud and thistles, sheep shit.

Why stay with feet on the ground?

This earth is too much fixed;

so whirl the grass, kiss

the sky Old Codger stomping, stomping, stomping down.

Les Mis

Dawn lifts. I travel East

and frost reflects an early blue.

So much here and very little;

locomotive, pen and paper.

 

Across, teenagers fratch among themselves:

please don’t enter consciousness!

If so, I hope it’s him;

the one who dances wearing baggy trousers;

 

a boy who sings ‘Look down.

Look down. Don’t look ‘em in the eye’

and looks you in the eye.

 

The opening song to a great performance.

Another day;

immense adventure.

 

Alchemy

I want you to imagine a creature

after midnight walking from a winter sea,

lumbering forward, every feature

intent on reaching out for you and me.

He stands, a shadow, looking at his feet

stamping in a dawn on this cold

shore an alien, stubborn and eager to play.

Beware. He needs our heat

so shall we spark a match and aim for gold?

But he could test our metal - make your day.

Support Group

Here, now

eight pairs - sixteen feet;

black and red and green, beige.

 

Some of the soles are flat on the floor,

some of the uppers are nodding

or turn slow circles.

 

There! Ten toes poking their nose

and most of the soles are flat on the floor

but some are waving.

A lad with learning difficulties says

‘What you doing? Eh?

 What you need?’

‘Er Money! Sex. Ah Stuff!’

‘What else you need?

‘A drink, a talk,

 to boss, fight, swear, win, sloth,

 to rule, to dig, to leap,

 in fame and fashion, debt and hope.’

‘Thanks very much.

I say more:

Friends, Food,

Stories, Games,

Music, Smiles.

Thanks very much?!’

Afterwards

Out come words - tiny spurts - with a spirit, tumbling,

sliding into the tall Spring air; rippling the Rubicon

of normal people, clumsy keys

hammering at a door that’s locked

- will we ever hear and feel a passion deep inside?

 

Shall we play? Shall we cry? Shall we arise and sing aloud

words that line-dance into laughter:

clear your throat and jump the escalator.

 

Andrew’s words are happy ever after:

ever after the dancing laughter after.

 

Walking away

A childlike life will get you all the fun;

when to rest and when to jump and play;

what’s in a wrestle, settle, dance or run,

what makes a small adventure every day.

 

Of how he talked, ate, mullocked, slept at night,

worn out, stayed superconscious in the eyes,

no dusty schoolbooks, more a dancing light;

his pain was shadow for the rest of us

 

but now’s a time when children leave, vamoose,

a moment when we say goodbye, ta-ra,

and when we stare towards the vanishing point

all hearts are aching, every head is faint.

 

He glances round and says ‘merci’, ‘au revoir’

and quickly turns his back, you’re no more use.