2005
A late afternoon in early summer in the northern part of eastern Gwent
by the bus stop, two young girls chatter on a main road bench,
elderly western England man, smart, casual, clean;
I ask, ‘You live around here?’
‘I’m going to play bowls,’ was the reply.
After a few more like exchanges, I gave up; his transport came,
he wiped the spit away.
Gave bus man 70 pence; to my surprise, he gave me 5 pence back,
in other parts of the world, he could have bought a cup of tea;
to Richards for Lego. Shut - no, it’s not a misprint or typing error.
Everywhere shut; not everywhere, just 90% of the place;
clock in window, just after 5 30. I went to the Cibi Walk pen
with the two fence night-time.
Into Wilkinson’s for scissors, shampoo, myself, and ‘Amarillo’,
‘and sweet Marie who waits for me there’,
being alone at the moment, I would be happy with a sour Marie.
Twenty years ago, I did have a very sweet Maria,
in Inca, Majorca. What a pity, the epitome of beauty…to me.
Iceland, Wendy, expert at putting things into the bag.
Back by bus, the chap getting back his recent 5 pence;
old lady told me how town wasn’t the place it used to be,
she should know, forty plus years spent here.
The bus swaying coming down to the kiosk,
I told the remaining solitary passenger, ‘it’s just like a ship.’
No response; I disembarked with my shopping.
Past the apartment block, the same two girls on the bench,
nattering encore in the oncoming air,
maybe discussing their homework.
In a narrow walkway by the half valley, the evening got going,
a lonely, forlorn, crushed Oranjeboom beer can - not me,
in the trees, unseen birds chat; in the air, one in quiet flight.
My place; the end wooden pylon, go-nowhere cable,
you can oversee the area, for the slope sheers in courteous way
to permit one to watch the two or four carriage marching train.
This evening, no fortune, just the noise of traffic’s homeward affair,
houses are silent, just bird song, tree breeze
to rub the marigold and a tiny ground hugging flower.
Earlier, I went into the bathroom to shave off my hair,
the warm shower water stinging, angry
at the way I now look, cranium aglow.
Tonight, some good conductors play, or get a mention,
Wordsworth, Elder, Handley; orchestral finesse, power too,
Bournemouth Symphony, CBSO.
an early summer late afternoon in the eastern part of northern Gwent.
