Grandad and Caterpillar Soup

It was a room of cloying Granny hugs and cheek pinching aunties wiping away big sobbing tears. It was the best room and on the large pine table Granddad lay still, tucked into his satin lined oak box quiet dead in his Sunday best bib and tucker.

The room was dark and stale. Full of heavy furniture and heavy hearts. He wasn’t old but then, to me at the age of three he seemed positively antique. All leathery and worn out with too much fresh air and hard physical work.

I was lifted high for my peek.

“Give the lad a look!”

I tensed my body like a plank, as toddlers do, and cried for my mother who was crying for her dead father.

Uncles chatted softly and I was the subject of too much Uncly head patting.

I wriggled free and darted from the best room and it’s dreary cold gloom and ran towards the bright outside light and clean air, alive with promise and free from death’s grimace.

I escaped into the orchard to eat until fit to burst, the green unripe pears squirming in my tummy like wriggly caterpillar soup.

A search party of older cousins dragged me back to the old house. My mother fussed and cleaned me up. Spitting into a hankie to wipe my face clean of pear juice.

Then all the women and snot-tripping younger children lined up in front of the house like servants for a photograph as my Dad and Uncles carried Granddad out.

His coffin was closed. I never did get that last peek. I remember him on the tractor and of hay fights in Summer, not a corpse in a box in a dank room.

We watched the hearse creep along the lane and down the Glen until out of sight past the rhododendrons where the foxes lived.

Then, Granny led everyone indoors to make mountains of sandwiches and kettles of tea in readiness for the returning men.

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#FP The Fly, the Trout and the Chelsea Pout

The fly
plops into the river
to lie abob the water

The trout
scoots and flashes
and espies the fly

The fly
caught in between
the layers struggles

The trout
drives and kicks
with mouth agape

The fly
whispers a prayer
and waits for the strike

The trout
keen eyes fixed
speeds prey-ward

A SPLASH!
a fly demise and
a contented trout

In a swish Chelsea surgery
Miranda and Charlotte
arrive for their collagen fix
and leave with a trout pout

Meanwhile
another fly
plops into the river
to lie abob the water

#FP LA La Land

In between my many scheduled trips
to the crazy Friday world of La La Land

(to visit Kizziwiggleboo and you too)

I live in ‘Real Life’ with my wife and
other tender flesh and blood creatures

(including several children and a jazzy Gnu)

any hoo

#FP

Chitterlins at St Andrews

The chitterlins
low flitting flight
picking insects
left and right
hugging the 18th green like
a running chip erratic with
sidespin, check and bite.

In the stands,
a wafer biscuit
is grabbed from
a child’s cold mitt
by a swooping gull with needy eyes
and grasping talon feet like a
true rolling putt unerringly hit.

In truth, I didn’t get to
watch much golf at all.
My trip to The Open
was a crazy carnival
of avian antics and passerine acrobatics,
with an occasional glance at the scoreboard:
but the golf nuts seemed to be having a ball!

Fly. River. Pizza.

Beside the old brick
railway bridge,
tired and
graffitied
and old

young men,
tattooed and bold,
strip to the waist
and jump with aplomb
to water bomb
the cool waters beneath

emerging half drowned
and coughing
with cigarettes
still clenched
between their
nicotine stained
teeth.

Their ditsy molls,
all tits and piercings,
sprawl across
the towpath
singing and
drinking cheap
wine by the neck.

Laughing like
shrieking starlings at
their boyfriends’
increasingly
childish bravado.

I am completely ignored
as I am much too old
for their carefree world.

(which I am paying for)

They are
superhuman,
young,
invincible,
with
irrepressible
optimism
and
indestructible
flesh and blood.

They are the
misunderstood yoof
who live for each moment.

Each moment a throwaway
pleasure
a swig,
a kiss,
a cigarette.

A sunny carousel of
couldn’t-care-less.

Then.

In an instant
the mood thickens as
fists fly in a blur
of white knuckles.

The demon drink
spurs on the lads
and taunts rain down
like clumped fists,
as their wretched molls
flap around with
wails and flailing arms.

A wonderful melee ensues.

A riot of
slaps and shouts,
ripped Fred Perrys
and well aimed clouts.

Then.

As quickly as
it started,
calm descends
as a spotty yoof
on a moped arrives
with pizzas and coke
for the yoofs
and their molls.

Smiling faces
slobber over
filled crust
and coleslaw dips
washed down
with litres of
caramel coke.

I roll
another cigarette
and enjoy my
riverside smoke.

Pizzas devoured,
dips dipped,
coke guzzled,
cartons and bottles
left where they fall
on the path,
in the river
or casually tossed
over the allotment wall.

And.

As they lie sated
with empty calories,
dull brained
and content,
they pair off to snog.

I
watch as the flies
descend on snippets
of pizza escaping
on the running river.

Pepperoni topping abuzz.

Fly. River. Pizza.

My Amber Tea and Me

My
amber tea
and me
are
Sunday morning
tea drinking
and chilling

balled up and
content to sup
from my favourite cup
legs curled under
on a battered settee
with my favourite tea

The perforated little bag
of black leaf goodness
brought to life by
boiling water kisses and
a splash of cow juice

an unpretentious little number
to jolt me from my Sunday slumber

nothing fancy
like Earl Grey or
Orange Pekoe
or frightfully hip darling!
like lapsong souchong
or, god forbid, green tea

Just
a good
old
fashioned
brew

A
pick me up
to start the day
and set me up.

I know!

I think I’ll have another cup.