Comfort

It’s hard to tell

Sometimes,

When you’re immersed

In that other place,

Whether I’m the cause

Or just the foil

Whose purpose is to spoil

The ugly thread

Unraveling with monotonous

Familiarity.

Did you intend

The little snipe

Which would offend

From others’ lips

But which from yours

Is as foreign

As another tongue?

And yet

Deep down I know

It’s just the overspill

The ebb and flow

Of pure integrity

Mixed with the fading signals

Of your youth

And this truth

Comforts me.

5^th V 2009 

Day Dream

To dream was to survive.

In my dream, which I could initiate

at will, I’m tending a smoking pile

of damp leaves. It is a dark,

late Autumn afternoon, and a fine drizzle

covers my hair with a delicate lace.

Now I’m entering a friendly

kitchen. No sound, save a low

womb-like hum, perhaps the aga,

and a girl with a wistful smile

coming towards me

in the warm light and drying

my face with a towel.

Twenty five years on, as I

mowed the lawn in the rain,

trying to unstitch a persistent

melancholy, you came out

and placed a coat over my shoulders.

And I knew I’d survived, and that

dreams really did come true.

John H Davies

29^th VIII 2010 

Rethinking incarceration

Send me back to gaol.

I’ll forget about the noise.

Give me two bowls of rice

and a trim figure, any day.

Lock me up again,

I won’t complain

of when I might be freed.

For now I see a freedom

hidden in that captivity.

No fears about recession.

The only crunch, the crunch

of cockroach underfoot.

Tomorrow I’ll wake

without the thought of how

I’ll pay the mortgage, and

this evening someone else

can remember to lock up

and switch out the lights

as the world and I spin on

in selective oblivion.

9^th IX 2010

John H Davies

Bee hives

On a breezy day

We diffidently

Climbed the hill

On top of which

Stood forlorn

The remnants of a cottage.

“Let’s go inside!”

The youngest cried

And I, more cautious

Eyed the broken roof

And grown-up practicality

Delayed the chance

That we might further go.

But ever closer drawn

We carefully trod

The scores of guardian nettles

Where once there was a lawn

And beat a wary path

Towards the door.

And as we neared

I thought I heard

A low but steady hum

Of which the others weren’t aware

Reassuring, yet of danger it forebode

And far we were from any road.

Once within the crumbling walls

The humming grew

And looking through

A broken window

To a hidden yard the other side

We spied a dozen hives

Absorbed in timeless industry.

The noise we now all recognised

And rooted to the spot

With studied nonchalance

We each looked inward on our fear

Ignorant of the ways of bees

Yet held firm by the wonder

Of this ancient sight and sound:

Watchers from another world. 

Without a word

We left. No debate

And naught to expiate.

Happy to have happened

On that secret place

Where we’ll return one day.

10^th XI 2007

Irene

Irene didn't know he wasn't

her real father

until she needed the birth certificate

for her first job.

Her mother explained as they walked to the mill:

He wasn't my real dad…

but he was a good man.

They left the kids at home

on Saturday nights with three pairs of socks

on the kitchen table, and a note:

‘This pair want washing

and this pair want darning

and this pair want washing and darning.’

They used to call her the Little Mother

she overheard years later

in the queue at the grocers.

She said it felt she was never wanted,

but always needed, and now at 86

she was neither wanted nor needed…

but he was a good man.

9^th XII 2009

Gravitas

Three courses and a bottle of wine

for a tenner. She felt moved to text

her friend, while trying to decide

whether it was Tenerife next year

or stay at home and economise.

So many decisions. Contract or

pay-as-you-go? No time to lose.

Each spinning plate easily replaced,

they’re only cheap. Like the 40”

flat screen magic box that filled

the empty spaces and made her happy.

“It makes me happy.” Checking for lumps

when no-one was looking, she felt plain

despite the shiny shoes. Appearances

were important, and her line manager

pushed her just too far last week,

her only solace the knowledge

that she would brood, and brood,

and brood, and many years later

she’ll complain how the neighbour

planted a tree that obscured the view

from the front room. She couldn't even

watch the children coming home

from school. The highlight of her day.

John H Davies

28^th VIII 2010 

Had you come home

What would you have found

Had you come home?

Had providence preserved the vital germ

That had begun to grow.

Perhaps you see us now

From your quiet resting place

Among the countless thousands

With whom you share your fate

In timeless grace.

Could you accept without a bitter pang

The passing of the old ways?

As you walk the lane at eventide

And reach the gate

“Cooo-ee!”

Would you not hate

The gradual disappearance

Of those things you loved?

Woods of aspen, beech and yew

And beds of fragrant herbs with ancient names,

A horse and cart; the team and plough;

The smithy; inn and woodman’s cot;

The nightingale, skylark and curlew.

.

These things are mostly gone.

No longer could you walk

For twenty miles in quiet roads unspoiled,

With only hedgerow gifts

To interrupt your leisured gait.

It’s all too late.

Only your beloved names remain

Echoes of those golden times

Captured in the legacy you left behind.

For we can hear you still

“Cooo-ee!” though fainter now

And like the passing age

Gone, but not forgotten.

(In memorandum E.T.)

13^th XI 2007 

Her smile

She warms the moment with her smile.

Barely as I knock upon the door

It opens wide,

And wider still her countenance

With eyes that shine a mixture

Of both welcome and surprise,

Envelopes me and gently bears

My anxious heart within.

Gentler still, her soft embrace

Discovers that our bodies thus

Were fashioned eons hence

By nature’s knowing wit,

Whereby our union produced a perfect fit.

She warms the moment with her smile,

When parting I must fly

The safety of her arms and patiently abide

Till we can meet again

Upon the next returning tide.

25^th II 2006

Space

This day I failed again.

The one I love has fled in angry pain.

Her silence I mistook.

For in her hour of need, she seemed to need me not.

If I but knew my presence there alone,

Devoid of talk or touch

And unacknowledged for a while,

Was all she craved.

In time I’ll learn.

And in my heart I hope

That patience might allow a chance

For me to demonstrate my love

In nothing more than silence,

And a forward glance.

8^th VIII 2004

The Pharmacy

“A bottle of eye drops please – chloramphenicol,

my wife (she’s a nurse) asked me to collect it for her,

she’s doing an extra shift today, and Sunday too,

to make ends meet.”

“One moment sir, I’ll have to ask the pharmacist.”

In retrospect, I think she already knew.

“So sorry sir, the pharmacist” (who’s hair I could just see

above the low partition) says the patient must attend.”

As I stormed off I realised

my silent rage was with myself.

Why didn’t I stay and say something clever like:

But they’re only eye drops –

my wife can’t get in, that’s why I’m here.

She’s quadriplegic (she’s not)

can’t you take my word – or hers?

She’s a nurse for God’s sake!

Instead I said:

“I’m leaving the country.”

I didn’t change anything.

13^th XII 2009

Unwelcome news

It was an innocent enough question

and you’d been waiting for it,

rehearsing the answer. And when it came

you paused, and in that moment

I knew everything. Your look

told me everything you hoped to hide.

How she took it on the chin

while you floundered, considered,

resolved to reset the clock from this

infinite moment with each borrowed breath

a returning wave.

John H Davies

23^rd August 2010 

You were not here

You were not here

When I came home.

You had not phoned

To say your plans had changed,

Or you’d be late.

At once I feared the worst,

And for a moment

Tempted fate to show me

How I’d feel if something terrible had passed.

Perhaps a crash: The phone would ring

“I’m sorry sir – she didn’t feel a thing.”

And for some minutes

I put it from my mind,

And quelled a guilty feeling

Only still to find my thoughts

Returning to that morbid place...

Until your radiant face

Alighting at our door

“Hello my love, I called in

“At the grocery store.

“Is everything OK?”

“Oh yes,” I said

“I’ve had a lovely day.”

15^th X 2008 

The Squirrel

Two boys running through a wood

trampling late autumn leaves

giving chase to a grey squirrel

descended from a tree

and now within tantalizing reach.

The leader hurdles a fallen bough

and lands amidst a briar

scratching bare knees,

unwieldy wellingtons struggling

to maintain traction on the muddy path.

Running again

the squirrel just ahead,

vision narrowing and a focused rush of sound

between his ears, his sweaty hand

closes on the rodent’s tail.

In this unexpected moment of triumph

the despairing animal turns,

lets out a high pitched scream

and fixes the boy with an indignant look.

At once he loosens his grip

and watches, ashamed, as the squirrel

scurries to the safety of a nearby tree.

Ashamed, because his feelings are unprepared

for this moment.

Years later, he would remember that look.

That sound. In a far off land, in a different wood.

As he slipped the safety catch

and took the first pressure on the trigger.

22^nd XII 2009

The Step

Left with my mother’s parents

in Brithdir, or was it Llansanfraid?

I remember Nana washing the step

of the front porch.

No ceremony. A weekly task.

 She didn’t complain.

Rust coloured tiles.

Evoking the remnants

of the iron railings in front of the house,

removed during the war.

Melted down for tanks.

 My Grandfather wasn’t around.

Our shared duty.

 I think I helped.

She laughs as I scrub the dark lines

between the tiles,

and smiles, and gives me a treat

for my surreptitious assistance,

 or observance:

 a foil covered piece of soft cheese

 in the shape of a triangle,

 that I nibble from one corner.

The metallic taste, will be unknown to her,

 but to me is the world.

 The new world.

Soot free.

But this world:

of a small hallway and porch,

 a little woman, on her knees,

with bucket and sponge,

removing the coal dust

 from the cracks in the tiles,

 while the Minister

 prepares the sermon,

is the one that sticks.

John H Davies

6^th June 2012

Skylarks

Here,

amongst the hedgerows

I found a still

in the first hot days of May,

as we swathed through fields of buttercups,

and you told me of your weights and loves

and thrills and hates;

I listened,

for once not burdened by my own life.

Your life was mine,

without agenda.

And when a skylark rose from the rape

and flung its gentle ripple,

higher and higher,

you seemed uninterested.

But soon another joined it,

and you asked if it was the same one,

so I knew you’d heard me,

and you knew I’d heard you.

And the skylarks sang in unison

as I took in every detail of the surrounding fields,

every detail of your life.

John H Davies

28^th May 2012