Windows
You wake,
flitter between shirts and skirts,
pick your
uniform. I listen
under
thick covers.
No
lipstick, cross-legged in
front of
a full-length mirror,
you grab
your lanyard,
a medal
to me.
I steal
glimpses behind pillows,
curtain holes
like spotlights.
You leave
the room to make breakfast,
the TV
whispers; coughing headlines.
Porridge
hangs off hobs;
bubbles, bowl
clangs.
Our cat
meows and kneads.
Birds
congregate at the door.
You go to
work; study, placate patients,
collect stats, prowl
hospital wards,
bring
home owls after dark.
Then spin
webinars, working groups, panels;
eat
dinner and live life in small routines.
You long
to operate again,
after
taking time out for a PhD,
so we
clap, count down the days,
let
weekends brim with data,
thumb
through our wedding anniversary album.
Ambulances
fly in blue past our flat;
we salute
the drivers,
pray for
patients through our square windows.
Stay
inside but for daily chores;
bins
dragged, post collected, sometimes
my only face-to-face
chat is with delivery drivers.
Before
bed; yoga and sleep meditation,
only
surrendering the duvet to get up for the loo,
collecting
bedposts along the way.
Feet like
shot-puts, I toss the cat into twilight–
after
another accidental trip along the hallway.
Tonight we’ll
lie longer, but there are crinkles
in bed
sheets, the alarm suddenly cries,
my pillow
too vertical for comfort.
You burnt
popcorn the other night;
bitter,
while
still sweet, I liked it, you didn’t.
Burnt
again next time, days apart,
maybe
weeks, I saw remnants in the bin,
we ate
bowls of it anyway.
The
TV now turns on by itself,
stars
tune in, morning waits; watching.
Death
figures are frequent,
my watch
ticks
so we
left it outside the bedroom.
Some days
I wear it, others I forget,
did I
forget today? It’s powered by
movement, shall
I purr on this sofa, fixated
on the
wall. Or bury my eyes, into their lids,
is our
garden overgrown?
Is this
space shrinking; does everyone
move
in a series of loops?
Even
those nursing others are stuck in a cycle.
Let’s
wind watches–listen to millions ticking.
Did you
know waves of silence can break eardrums;
foam up
thoughts, crack memories like shells?
Linen
baskets spit; voices are creasing,
we find endless
odd socks, watch washes through the window.
You head
out again; all wrapped up,
we hug
with arms as soft as scarves.
Calling
my mum today, she’s had a jab,
so’s my
dad,
you’ve had
two, I like knowing that.
I have a
tiny nephew, I’ll find him
at
Easter, but he’s not used to me holding him.
Coming
home, in the morning, or late,
we’ll
laugh–properly–
we’ve
laughed more recently, at our little routines.
Maybe
there’s nothing else to do,
or you’ve
just got funnier.
And when
the days become brighter again,
You’ll
dance in beautiful shirts and skirts.
Catch
light
We soak up rays;
the last of evening light in
A small corner of
our courtyard garden,
Our restless cat
at the window pawing at greenflies.
A flowerpot in
sunshine guards the back door
While our
well-watered hedge slumps into the neighbour’s
Garden like a
nuisance guest who’s overstayed
His welcome. In
the quiet, but for the sound of traffic,
I imagine the
hedge shouting profanities at neatly-pruned
Wall climbers who
were minding their own business.
The buttons on his
drink-stained shirt popped,
Like mini corks,
revealing a pale pot belly.
Our flowerpot
reaches to the heavens. I envisage her
Rolling her eyes,
all high and mighty on top of her clay,
Ordering a taxi to
speed up the hedge’s exit.
The cat has left
the windowsill and preens.
I look for shears.
Mister
Painter
Houses
rub shoulders,
Paint
falls like peeling skin
And I
ask where the sea is
Amongst
the rubble and the dirt: a small face–
School
kids back off the bus. They joke,
Skip
and dance, and the hills roll in
The
background like silent guardians,
Waiting
for the rain.
An old
man grips a rubbish bag
Like a
painter needs his pots,
'Paint
this part, Mister' say the kids,
Pointing
at gaps in the houses. And he sweeps
His
brush, coarse as a wave, heavy
As
rain. This too will age.
Chimney
snorkels
We
reach a corner and catch a couple
Hand in
hand–keep our distance,
Fingers
away from our faces.
The
light has faded, unveiling
The
moon; a crescent with a single star
Below–as
if they arrived to a night’s party together.
The
canal glistens, narrowboats like guards on shift,
Replacing
daytime geese patrol.
From
thin, black chimney snorkels,
Smoke
invades the crisp air, putrid and thick,
A woman
sits in a saloon, back to the open door,
Asserting
a point to male companions.
The
cafés and pubs look empty, but in the
Distance
a ‘Pizza’ neon sign bends the horizon,
Who has
the dough for electricity while
No one
bakes and not a soul visits?
Underneath
a bridge, a man waits by the path,
His
coat is zipped up tight; he seems bemused,
Anxious.
Flashing an impatient look, his eyes
Brighten
in the dark. He lets us pass in silence.
I
gesture a thank you–his mouth looks like it opens,
But it
hides behind a mask.
Dawn
When
exhausted birds have flown away and tweeted their last breath
that’s
when I’ll close my eyes and say there’s more to life than death.
For when
they call, they call with heart through feathered chest
and as
they go, they fly with hope that after song they’ll rest.
And I
in bed as next day looms and dawn begins to stir,
think
back before this sombre place to sunlit gardens far.
A
silent bird that sings no more may have no song to make,
but as I
lie in deepened thought, my bitten nails, break.
As once
it sang, brought the day and closed it with a verse,
now
every time I think of it, my anxiety gets worse.
Take my
clothes, my pillow too and place me by the tree
where
these poor birds once posed and sang and breathed relief to me.
Chris Campbell, born in Dublin, is a former national and regional journalist who worked for newspaper titles in London, Bristol, Bath, South Wales and Gloucestershire. Chris, who lives in Bristol, has published two poetry collections, ‘Bread Rolls and Dresden’ (2013) and ‘White Eye of the Needle’ (2021), both through The Choir Press. The latter, published in April, is available from Amazon and all major retailers. He currently works in PR and judges young writer competitions in Swansea. Chris recently won the Portico Library ‘Poetry Prize’ and has contributed to several anthologies. He graduated with an MA in Journalism from Kingston University and a BA (Hons) in Economic and Political Development from the University of Exeter, with a year’s study in Uppsala, Sweden. Visit his website at: www.chriscampbellpoetry.co.uk
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