The Year of Small Stories

A couple in Café Nero.

She looks up at him, strokes his arm, leans into him, draws him down for a kiss, cuddles up to him. They have everything you need in life.

They have everything I want in life.

Early morning on Epsom train station. 
    The sky darkening in folds like burning dough; a threat of rain stings the air, too cold for July. A wind is rising in the trees on the traintrack, hurrying the leaves into waves of noise, waves that move through me, wash away fears and hopes and stress.

The swifts are circling the Epsom Comrade Club. With slicing screams, the swirl on one side of the building where half-rose wooden eves hang down. They are trying to land on the eves.

Actually, they are trying to land up behind them, which means they have to swoop in, cut the air and tuck up the woodwork.

A feat of aerial athleticism. A show of winged dancing that scars the air and leaves me breathless, stinging, pained.

The swifts swoop in and miss every time. They cut away suddenly to avoid hitting the wall. They circle and swirl around each other, never hitting anything but never landing either. At the same time, they work as a team and compete for the same space.

I don’t know how they manage it.

They keep trying and trying and screaming and trying. Frustration and joy combined.

They never hit each other and they don’t land either. 

Awoken early by thunder.

The rumble is all around me. I’m not afraid. Happy to lay and listen

to the crack and tumble; on the edge of sleep.

The rain shatters down and I drift back to sleep.

I try to get the trolley past him but it won’t go. My trolley nudges the back of his thighs.

        ‘Sorry.’

        He turns to face me. A dreamy looking late middle-aged man with a thick blue sweater – surely the wrong choice for a hot summer day.

        ‘I can’t get past, sorry.’

        ‘Fine. Sure.’ He nods and pulls himself in and upright. I try to get past. The trolley goes a short way forward but, because it’s wider at my end, it won’t go past.

        I still can’t get past him.

        The thought hits me quickly: he’s too fat. Unusually, I leap over my hesitation and just say,

        ‘Still can’t get past, sorry.’

        ‘Oh, Hah! Too much of this,’ he says giving his paunch a little light slap. The blue sweater was hiding it well but now I can see it, bulging like a monstrous mole hill.

        I laugh politely, delicately, wondering how this will end.

        ‘You’ll have one later on in life,’ says the man, stepping out of the way. He talks in a happy, drunken fashion. It’s early Sunday morning and the harsh supermarket lights dull the senses.

        ‘Bit more drink,’ he continues. ‘And when you’ve got more dosh.’

        I laugh and move on. Then I wonder what he meant? Did he think I looked poor. And sober? Was he trying to put me down and defend his paunch, the swollen evidence of his material success?

        I consider myself lucky and forget about it.

She Screamed

 

 

She screamed

like the heroine of some old horror movie,

hand-over-the-face and wild eyes.

 

She screamed

as the balloon swelled and left the ground

and rose up so softly, so gently.

 

It was her birthday surprise.

That announcement made the first scream.

 

“Madam,” said the balloonist imploringly.

“There are country codes. Control yourself.”

She stopped screaming and studied the view.

 

“Like God up here,” she said as they drifted

over those beautifully modelled
Devon hills:

pretty little lanes, hedgerows, patchwork fields.

 

She shook her head, stunned into a lasting

silence. Voice gone. 

Descending now.

 

A little bumpy in the wind

She saved her screams

for when they bounced off the ground

 

and bumped and bumped and bumped

and rolled over into a huge pile of manure.

“You can stop screaming now,” said the balloonist.

 

 

 

How He Made Us Laugh

 

 

That happy Indian ticket inspector

checking our tickets with such joy,

‘That’s wonderful,’ like an excited boy,

‘That’s perfect, yes, wonderful.’

Full of praise for us obeying the law.

‘Have a lovely evening’, and up

the carriage he headed as the train

tottered out of Motspur Park. He left

behind amazement, turning quickly to

sniggering. How strange: a happy

ticket inspector; someone having fun.

 

What miserable shits we all were

to think that so strange.

 

 

 

Tiny Tornado Dance

 

A tiny tornado appears under

a tree. All of a sudden a great whirl

of little yellow leaves, swirling

around, all stirred up into a dance;

spinning energy and colour seen

only by the tree and me. Then

softer and slower and sadly,

the leaves fall and settle. The

only sound, passing cars and

it has gone, forever, memory.

 

 

 

September 16

 

Evening gloom like a glove, slips over the street,

swats away the sun, leaving a yellow smear

in the darkening sky, darkening.

 

 

October 12

 

Bright sunshine shows up the emptying trees, gardens glazed in moisture.

 

 

Scruff of Wood

 

A triangular scruff of woodland squeezed between railway lines coming into Raynes Park station. A deep green cleft of tangled trees, over-enthusiastic bushes, broken branches and rubbish.

 

 

 

 

 

Dec 7

 

The bare trees are quiet: no birds at all. Except for one tall elm and two big rockdoves sitting at the top, back-to-back. Big birds but still, watching winter coming in.

 

 

 

Help, Help, Help

 

Drawn to Paris, 1939

by the scent of something silky.

 

Sucked slowly up the Seine,

into the city’s soft sheets.

 

David’s thirst for life

dried the bistros and night clubs.

 

He was a proper writer now,

His hand hurried by inspiration.

 

He never stopped to question the fact:
so many Poles in Paris all of a sudden.

 

It finally hit him in a letter.

Orders from his own Fuhrer. Father.

 

A war had started in Europe.

There was no ignoring it now.

 

David’s calling changed.

Before he could kiss Paris goodbye

 

he was off to Singapore, a Signalman.

His hurried hand tapping out,

 

Help, help, help.

 

 

 

 

 

Three Spring Haikus

 

I

 

White daisies

spread on the grass

like spilt milk.

 

 

II

 

The rain starts

a sudden hard patter

and I am glad.

 

 

III

 

 

Pruned chestnuts

from hard knuckles sprout

fists of leaves.

 

 

 

Pink Plastic Shoes

 

 

The high heat had brought out

the flying ants. Every inch of concrete

was crawling. A little girl with

pink plastic shoes was slowly

stamping on ants, taking great care

to squash them so they never moved

                again.

 

 

 

The Rain Threatens

 

 

All day the rain threatens

in spits and swirls from

the grey curling clouds.

 

A gloom gathers in the afternoon

and the wind spreads rumours

of a torrential shower that

never

comes.

 

 

 

 

Moon Fight

 

 

On a Sunday evening, dark clouds glide

noiselessly like oil spilling, darkening

a sky bright with the moon, a halo

around her head. She spends ten minutes

fighting the cunning cloud, trying to see

through the thickening spill, winking in

 

the gaps in blackness, holding her breath

when the watery soot smothers her;

slowly she shrinks. I look up. She is gone.

But then a tiny blink. She remains there.

 

A night later and she is back, fully

rounded, bold with pride and the sun’s

light; she cuts the fast white clouds around

her and creates a giddy illusion of her

speedy rising up into the sky. She is

transcending, she owns the night.

 

 

 

The Aphid

 

The aphid lands on my hand with a tiny plop,

a miniscule green body I can barely see.

The wings are little slices of lace liked by light.

 

 

Poppies

 

Poppies on the side of the railtracks at Mitcham Eastfields;

bloody red dollops against green tangle

and a grey-brown crumbling wall.

 

 

 

 

Man Fights Sleep/Poem

 

I

 

Man fights sleep

while sitting on a train,

nodding and rocking his head

like a drunken string puppet.

His eyes close slowly like glaciers

and then suddenly spring open

as the train rocks; surprised, blinks,

and then as quickly slips shut again;

a fight that sets his face

as still as clay.

 

II

 

Man fights to write poem;

inspired in the moment. Now I’m

worried it’s not enough but

the moment stays with me all evening,

my fingers thawing on the keyboard.

Such a small moment really but

its persistence makes this man

give in and write and

remember it. So this poem

ends.

 

 

 

August 15

 

Above West Brompton Station

a muffled moon,

a smudged orange orb bleaching the fuzzy night.

It begins like a Banshee.

A wild wail coming from a small, blonde hair girl in a pram. I follow her hands as they claw the air, rising, like the whole balloon in the sky. Her wailing rips into a scream and her father lets out an exasperated sigh and then a limp, “Sorry, sweetie.”

The little girl continues screeching for a few seconds as the balloon shoots up above the empty shell that was once Woolworths. Her father pushes the pram on quickly, humming soothing noises like a cruising train. Her wails die down. Perhaps he has promised her something.

I think how like childhood this tiny moment is: having to let go over and over again until it becomes adulthood and normal.

1.30 am and I am staring up at the starlit sky. There is nothing new to say, but I’ll try, the ego of the writer I suppose.

No, I won’t try I will just briefly describe how I stood

on the empty street looking up at constellations, bright needle punctures in the dark canvass, the stars so beautiful and calm it sets the mind to rest for a moment.

I wish I could look up more and notice and be at peace.