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 

Hidden Depths

You may not know it yet,
but you have a calm
deep within.

I saw it while you slept
in a Perspex box
like a doll.

I saw it when I crept
into your room at night,
and by the light
of the crack from the door,
I waited till I saw you breathe.

I saw it as you fought
from a hospital bed,
drawing from the depths
as you inhaled large gulps
of oxygen.

You have a calm.
Solid unwavering calm
that you keep hidden well.

For now you are looking back
into the box.

And the light from the door
is your light.

And your breath
is the air that feeds
those around you.

You have a calm.
And though I’m not around
to share it today,
I can feel it,
even from here.


John H Davies
16th July 2011
Juba

Juba, Republic of South Sudan

On arrival at Juba International airport I was reminded of old black and white photos from the 1950’s with family arriving at Nairobi, greeted by relatives and friends on the tarmac. The resultant chaos of the small room that served as immigration and baggage reclaim, seemed to stem from the single security scanner, through which everything was dutifully passed, and a chalk mark placed on each item of luggage before being relayed across the throng to anyone who managed to catch the eye of a handler. About an hour later my bags hadn’t surfaced and looking around I spotted the three of them piled neatly by the main entrance where a constant stream of people came and went, any one of whom could have easily made off with everything I possessed. Nothing was missing.

After 20 years of relative tedium running a small manufacturing business in the midlands, I was taking up a position with a security company owned by an on old Sandhurst friend, who by chance was looking for a replacement operations manager in the newly independent Republic of South Sudan.

North and South Sudan have been at war with each other for between 25 and 53 years depending on your source, and a Comprehensive Peace Agreement signed in 2005 led to relative stability which culminated in the formal declaration of Independence on 9^th July. Naturally I was excited at the opportunity to experience the birth of a new country, but although I arrived three days before the event, I was to see very little of the festivities.

The new capital of Juba is no larger than a provincial English town, sitting beside the White Nile, but there the similarity ends. Most of the accommodation consists of portable buildings squeezed into walled compounds topped with razor wire, and guarded in the main by my new employees. There is no reliable source of electricity so the drone of generators is all pervasive. Water is delivered by ancient trucks from outlets provided by USAID and signs by the pumps declare ‘A gift from the American people.’ The exorbitant cost of living, driven by the unabashed exploitation of NGO’s and aid organisations working here, means that a night in a portacabin at the Hamza Inn (…think down market Camp Bastion) costs more than a superior room at the Sheraton Belgravia. A laminated sign adorns the dining room door rather like a No Entry road sign, with the image of the ubiquitous Kalashnikov struck through.

But there is an underlying air of optimism that you can’t fail to notice, and as I was driven around, the roads were being washed with water and brooms, strategic curb stones painted white, and a few flower pots distributed at road junctions which uniquely complimented lounging soldiers in camouflage fatigues cradling AK 47s and rocket propelled grenades. Earlier in the week the local mayor of our area had visited each property and insisted that the front gate was painted blue, on risk of imprisonment. All in preparation for the big day and the presidential entourage.

My first task was to inspect the guards parading in the compound, something I hadn’t done since a young infantry subaltern, and now touching 50 I felt rather like Captain Mainwaring as I was treated to a display of drill which would have made my old colour sergeant swallow his pace stick, but with a commitment which would have raised an approving smile, and having taken a salute actually heard myself saying “Good turnout men!” Only Corporal Jones was missing…

Several African Heads of State and diplomats from all over the world were flown in for the ceremony, and we could only imagine the chaos at the airport, although later learnt that the air traffic operation was taken over by the Kenyans who sent in controllers to organise the constant stream of aircraft that flew in low over our office. The resourceful Kenyans are a force majeur here in Southern Sudan and whilst they provide well needed expertise, some internal grumbling has been directed towards international development groups for not employing enough local Sudanese, and my company Warrior Security has made a priority of recruiting and training local guards, in all over a thousand.

Sadly my view of the festivities was restricted to the operational base, the old hands advising it would be a fruitless exercise to venture up town as the roads would be a heaving mass of humanity. But that night the residents and staff of Hamza Inn were treated to a barbeque laid on by a long term Sudanese resident and duel Canadian citizen who we thanked and wished Happy Independence.

And we meant it. Independence has come at a price. Prolific poverty, rudimentary education and high infant mortality are only a few of the challenges that need to be addressed, along with the underlying resentments that will have evolved from years of fighting, deep tribal divisions, and on-going disputes up in the border areas that produce the country’s only major commodity, oil.

Having had a poem published in The Spectator last year I was encouraged, rashly, to write a new piece every day and post it on a blog, and managed to keep it up for 6 months. It has been a hard slog, and harder still knowing that the necessity of writing to order undoubtedly dilutes the quality of the offering. It was my intention to continue the discipline in my new environment, but the activities of the past few days have been all consuming, and I have lapsed. To my tiny band of loyal followers I say thank you, and I am certain my new surroundings will provide a refreshing fountain of inspiration. Watch this space http://dailybreadpoetry.blogspot.com/

Tuck Box

My tuck box was blue and had two catches

like an ammo box, secured with a pad lock

and containing all that I now owned in the world.

You were allowed to accompany me to the

windowless bare study smaller than our

downstairs loo, which I was to share with Henn,

until it was time to shake hands, tight lipped

as I watched you walk away along the corridor

and back to the real world that you owned.

In a very short time I’d shut the pad lock key inside

and to my shame you were summoned from sherry

with the house master and armed with a pair of pliers

you forced the lock with a shaking hand and I think

I knew then, that this was hard for you too and I cried

for the first time, and didn’t want you to go again.

John H Davies

4^th July 2011

Briggs & Stratton

Not only did she prove

that she didn’t need a man

about the place, but that

it was possible to mow

the lawn in several

different directions at once.

John H Davies

3rd July 2011

Fledgling

Rather like

a tiny dressed chicken;

bald,

but warm

as it nestled in my palm,

this blind morsel of life,

muscled out,

its miniature ribcage

expanding and contracting

in a staccato rhythm

slowly diminishing

into my cupped hand

until all its premature vigour

was expended,

and round about,

the hedgerows chirruped

in the summer sunshine.

John H Davies

2nd July 2011