The View From The Galaxy Bridge

Yesterday I tried to set on paper, something of a place

where I would walk when I was younger,

One that now– looking back– seemed so full of wonder and delight.

A bridge, enclosed in windows that looped

all the way ’round and sprung high from the side of a town centre car park.

The heavy steps of mum and dad would shake the floor

and start the tingling in my feet. You were held above a nameless street

as cars and people moved beneath you.

It led to the cinema, with high ceilings

and the mingling smells of treats trapped in the carpet.

The films, of course, were a treat as well,

but on the way back you’d walk across the bridge– a space

between the world you’d just inhabited

and the car ride home again. And there– with the blood

still rushing back to your feet– the thought

floated in the dusty air that maybe it was all real

and that– as you sat fixed in your seat– the world outside

was changing too. And I miss the spring

in those hopeful strides– past the inviting depths of

the school night dusk where you can live

your new-learnt truths.

I can’t go there now, and perhaps its best that I can’t

because I don’t think I really miss the place;

I’m only chasing the enchanting glow

that’s drifting further into the haze. And the more I try

to pull it into view, the edges get softened by my clumsy

hands and failing wits.

But I still cup the flames of that feeling

of crossing the Galaxy bridge.

In The Shadows

“Hello.”

We stand in the shadow of a handshake–

That most strange salutation of an outstretched, peaceful hand.

That with which we poke and grasp our way through this hazardous coil,

With our arms outstretched before us like inquisitive children.

As though to say: “What is a friend,

If not someone with whom you would trade the many relics of a day lived

And gladly fight each microscopic battle that ensues.”

All for the reassuring clasp of skin upon embattled skin.

But here we stand in its chill absence.

It is painfully implied,

As it dances on that barrier held between us with the power of will.

It mocks the calculating mind with its impossible, prohibited simplicity.

–

“Hello x”

Our new lovers are taunted by apparitions on small screens.

The walls of their rooms, dark in those illicit hours of romance,

Are danced upon by the haunting shadow of a kiss,

Which might yet lead to nought.

I know we can talk,

But what weight is conveyed by the pressing,

Of skin on tender skin.

–

“Hello.”

Upon returning home, a mother and child cannot unite,

Until she scrubs the passengers from her longing arms–

Those unthinking specs, who enjoy the touch that they deprive.

The shadow of an embrace lingers in the doorway–

An awkward guest–

And hovers where patient children sit.

Just wait– let me renounce these words and cool the sting

Of distance, through the touch of skin on tender skin.

A game of chess

For them it’s like a game of chess;

Two blokes try their bloody best

To win the squares of Britain’s board,

Under which our hope is stored.

–

But behind each silent, stoic pawn

Is hungry nurse or child born

In poverty, used in games,

Played to the hum of distant pain.

–

Though some may play with heart on sleeve,

Riding like knight or cavalry,

The ever cunning tablemate

Trots round the board with no mistake.

–

As when you’re watching from afar,

And you’re not the piece with which they charge,

You tend to have a clearer view

Of how the rules might bend for you.

–

‘Our guy won! Your guy lost!’

‘Our Bobby Fischer sees Boris off!’*

They can shake hands, their wounds are healed

While others sweep their battlefield.

–

So sure, this is a game of chess;

We cheer for those that we like best.

But remember those in ‘cheaper’ seats

Are crushed by passing kings and queens.

–

*a reference to Boris Spassky, a Russian chess grandmaster who lost to American Bobby Fischer in 1972