COPPERS FROM THE QUEEN
(j)
In the long-ago when time began,
that year the Queen took her first breath,
a man was born with his full beard, no hair
to speak of, yet a cap would suffice.
His first words – and the rest –
unrecorded, except, his daughter
played with words like fish...
His ageing grew long and wise as years
lived, learned, pondered beside a pint pot.
(ii)
Smoke, never inhaled, like a cloud
wrapped him round with mystery and past.
Gods on his wall: a fiercesome hound
collecting golf balls and custard creams.
The Oxclose, framed, pondered long
over beer and women, Holman Hunt,
a Trinity of DOG, for hounds were true.
(iii)
First words unknown for fourteen years
when the Queen allowed his education.
Sacks of spuds/turnips humped onto hoss and dray,
showed off muscle; Grandad pondered beside a half pint.
(iv)
Christmas Eve, Grandma plucked a last chicken,
village order despatched by Dad neck-wrung fresh,
innards pulled, plucked carcass’ Silent Night,
kitchen table fat with feathers, grease, hands raw.
Emasculated on the wall a broken hoss whip’s
mother-shielded tattoo.
(v)
Learnt to swim in the canal, age 7,
those were the days...
Hid a pile of coppers behind the pipes,
treasure, like King John’s lost stash,
Queen’s coppers.
(vi)
Moved house, his mother grew old,
nothing more attractive to fitful youth
than leaving home forever.
His Dad signed him down the mines,
Bevin Boy at the tail-end of War,
in dirt and hell he hated Dad.
Ran away too late for War,
signed up, sailed for Mogadishu.
Three years’ Army freedom abroad
a dashing soldier and best cook,
porridge never lumpy, so commandeered
for the Officers’ Mess.
(vii)
The way to a man’s heart… tea served,
fresh fruit of the marriage bed.
Uncle delivered message:
Never darken my door again, if you marry her:
deliciousness of duty, to rebel,
nothing more tempting to youth
banned from home.
(viii)
Stationed on the Welsh borders near Shrewsbury,
private mess over a pint pot, awaiting firstborn
who could not be named Stephen;
a honeymoon baby, a girl.
Moved into digs with Great Auntie,
Victorian terrace, cobblestone street, boarding rooms.
You used to chase her round the bed; she ran one way,
you another, I used to live opposite.
(ix)
Took his wife and firstborn to visit Mam,
grey with pain, visiting a lodging house. Cancer struck.
The old man, blind, and his housekeeper.
(x)
Moved family down the Medders,
beside the Trent; job on the Railways.
Pint pots killed an hour, wife’s voice
sharp with rage, rats leaving a sinking...
late shift, twitching legs vanished into walls
of cockroaches.
Fishing hours to ponder; pushchair stumble
bump and tow along the riverbank, later.
(xi)
The priceless pearl of parenting
buffed slowly against that grit, polishing
The Girl with the Pearl Earring, possibly.
Father, fully-formed, trodden flawless and threadbare.
Shippoes for a son born, absenting Stephen.
(xii)
Golden-haired child, like Mum.
New Year’s party, pulling home brew
and White Horse Whisky increased desire...
vanquished no ability, born full-term
by C-Section.
Such a joy, screams for pappies,
so hard to refuse.
(xiii)
Brother/sister caught nicking sweets; so ashamed;
then one night, in the kitchen, rowing, rowing,
cat – trapped – thrashed the ceiling
wall to wall – a cartoon –
and one small girl silently lost speech.
(xiv)
Moved a bus away from work
solid thirties’ Council housing;
Three-Up, Two-Down;
tins; tins; and more tins, budget-safe.
(xv)
Home from late shift,
she pawned his work trousers.
Served his mug of tea,
drained brittle through moustache.
Intimations of immortality, love, ethnicity,
marriage, packing a suitcase of Goodbyes.
(xvi)
Golden-haired, the young
in Neverland, counting teddies,
polishing the pearl beyond price, distantly.
(xvii)
He worked double shifts,
found Care, holidays, camping’s combination
rumble, rattle, roll over miles of potholes.
Took a family of four on holiday, by stages
neighbourly, like DOG – a faithful hound.
(xviii)
A man who believed in marriage,
hard work, Bevin Boy - no medal in National Service.
Three, four, six, to ponder over a pint pot.
Can man keep a woman happy?
(xix)
Born the year the Queen took first breath
and Dad, his Dad – Jack the Lad – fled a shotgun...
a £10 Pommie brother dematerialised.
Married his Mam... three months later
a bearded infant born and ageing fast.
The tale of a tale of a tale, and Why?
(xx)
Did the housekeeper know?
Vanished after the funeral, house, all.
Left with everything, except his birth certificate,
Mum in service on a Royal estate
somewhere in the Midlands, circa 1925.
No pint pots in sight of lace, before Mrs S...
Two dates that do not tally.
(xxi)
Too late to ask the housekeeper.
A blind old man, far from home,
the Sovereign spinning, spinning...
coppers and a bearded infant’s life at sea,
mother was a serving girl far away.
(xxii)
Like D'Urburville before him,
how the mighty have fallen,
the Reaper’s scythe of coppers running.
He giggles away, always wearing a cap,
jokes he will pop out of a coffin, wakeful,
whispering of King John’s lost gold
and stash of treasure behind the pipes long-gone.
The golden-haired girl laughs away
with the selkies in Neverland.
No comments:
Post a Comment