cannot pronounce. We spend hours climbing trees there.
You stamp on the earth to make sure it will remember us. and 91: The maps were larger than our eyes.
Made our knees buckle. We wished
to see the world in wooden boats.
Carve our names into waves, and shout
the wind down from the clouds.
Talk with him, invite him home
and cook him eggs for breakfast And I remembered how much I love poetry. And any novel or short story I write will always be my Plan B. I asked the crystal ball ‘will poetry make me rich?’ a long time ago and it said no. It says fiction won’t make me rich either but it concedes it will leave me slightly better off than poetry. In June this year for example I earned – from selling stories – double the fifty five pounds I’d earned publishing poems for the last ten years. Anyway, poetry will remain my guilty pleasure. I had another published on Sunday last actually in the US of A which I was really pleased to hear. Well here’s three of the seven I achieved. I’m Sorry I’m sorry I didn’t meet you that Monday The Monday The news repeated Weather warnings Across the road – coffee shop doorway I’m sorry I didn’t meet you That Monday. Rain tapping your black umbrella Like that wet Sunday funeral Crows cawing. I’m sorry I stood you up that wet Monday, In your doorway – pale blue dress Rain wet pumps. I was watching, standing in the rain Unable to move, drenched And the wet city streets And God’s silence As he watched us, weeping. On either side of Albert Square You waiting, me watching. I’m sorry I didn’t meet you that Monday The news repeated Weather warnings Page 115 There are nearly two million Books – in this library. I guess the one I think You’re reading next And write on page 115, your May birth-date our secret code I love you. Then I leave it On the shelf. Raining Blood On the way to Goose Green you sleep in a hole Waking to blasting and guns It was raining – you thought – as you heard the reports Of artillery, jump jets and bombs Adrenaline rinsed your brain comes around And the Paras reinforce from the rear You realise the moisture, the rain on your face Is red – and not rain and not tears.