Friday, 18 August 2017

Anger in Pall Mall

We're in a public space.
It's a large, ornate, room,
Shared with other "business people."
Groups sit round small tables
Talking in moderate, measured, tones.
We are talking, low over a spreadsheet;
Planning the next job, probably.
My mobile rings and I go outside to answer it,
Standing in a cubby hole that smells of furniture polish.
The voice at the other end's cajoling.
It almost begs and I feel flattered.
Do I think of you?
Perhaps, but briefly, and I say yes.
As I say it, I know you will be furious.
And you are, very angry,
More angry than I knew you could be.
Your voice is loud.
People stop their conversations
To listen to you rant.
Then you stop, look round and glare.
Up you stand; for one moment still as a statue
Just staring at me.
Then you're gone.
In a few seconds, you pass the window
Storming down Pall Mall to the tube.
Later, I realise the nature of the problem!
I know why it caused so much noise.
I'd got what you believed you had already.
And you'd have happily excused yourself;
Too good to miss…just had to take it!
Leaving me betrayed instead of "the betrayer."

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

It's just business you say.

Cotswold stone on a wet afternoon.
The light is on at three.
But, it isn't cosy.
We've avoided arguments all day
Here, in your fourth-bedroom office.
"This isn't working" you say.
No, it isn't;
It wasn't going to, was it?
Perhaps, if you'd told the truth?
I was naive you say,
This is business after all
And you needed an insurance.
How did you know you could trust me?
The trouble is, I did trust you.
The rain stops.
So, we go for a walk.
The dog comes with us.
She leads the way,
An enthusiastic,
Straight forward kind of dog!
We stop to look over a gate;
Sheep in the failing light.
The dog is tempted but knows better.
We're kind of friends again, for now.
It's just business you say.
But, I don't like it much.

Saturday, 12 August 2017

So, dear Mary

So, dear Mary,
What shall we make of this?
Old as time you stand
In a cool, green, silent, place.
Suffering though time,
You're bearing the forever wound.
A womb torn for the world by
Something of fate and history.
So many stories around you,
Like little children
Tugging at your skirts.
Tales of myth and magic;
All tinged with rosy mystery.
And still,
Regardless of divinity,
Your pain goes through the years.
Bringing us, perhaps,
As close to infinity
As we shall dare to contemplate.