Companionableness, Dear Preston & Roger McGough Cycle

Companionableness

What I thought was a bonfire’s smoke
Was a sprinkler spreading water over the
Football pitch, as we walked, father and I,
Through the field, on the rambler’s path;
Crops purposefully removed from the trail.

And the dog, Thompson, ahead, at heal, behind,
Chasing bumble bees and butterflies with
Flailing paws and a chomping mouth and
Jumping, bellowing over the winter wheat;
“This’ll all be houses some day.”

Clay-clodded ground, almost unarable,
Arid, cracked and yellowing. The path
Comes to an abrupt halt, overgrown with
Brambles, sheared back by dad’s knife; a
Pheasant-rearing station tucked away.

A house, our closest, one mile off; neighbour.
The dog pauses for a breather; t’was where
Tom and I came for a reminisce Thursday last;
All were on holiday that year, in Lanzarote,
Dad and his famous gin and tonics.

All is green and calm around, the cars but
Moving specks bumbling as loud as the bees;
Looks like the Hartz or some such place, somehow,
And I’m reminded I’ll be seeing Bernhard again
Next month, to watch the stars, in August.

We talked on where the puppy goes for walkies,
To the field in Derry Hill, where I used to play
Football, with the mounds, now houses;. Why not
John Cole’s? “I was there just the other day with
Rosalind, drinking Leffe and watching kubb.”

Semplice days in halcyon yore, an hour ago,
Not more; just an amble, a simple stroll, to
Take the edge off, to quell all qualms; a life
More ordinary, await me near; come constant
Companion, keep me company here.


Dear Preston

Dear Preston, a word from southern
Climes is a word from smitten
Minds is a word from wuthering
Heights is a word from one to
Another to you dear Preston. A-
North of here is a face and voice
That haunts me softly, quietly,
In hours twilit, in braziers aglow
Tingling in shushed susurration at
Night, saving me, sometimes, from
Dreams affright, your laughter Preston,
And soft, excitable ouis as a hovering spectrality
There, mindfilling, in rivulets like smoke, of
Streams and strands: we, hand in hand, oui, oui;
In Preston I have never been.


Roger McGough Cycle

As Roger McGough signed my copy of Slapstick Poems
Some kid was trying to nick my bike, smashing the lock
And twisting the wire round and round to make the top
Pop off, but they failed, thank u very much, thank u very
Very much.

At Marlborough College, selling out of That Awkward Age
And Selected Poems, the woman in front reserving it and
Letting us go first, then putting it back, to be snapped up
By the next Rotarian. No matter though, I’ll get my copy on
T’internet and Mersey Sound too.