The Secret Life of Ginnells

As Autumn exhales

Its first toke into night air,

Let's exercise our dogs

Or our melancholy

Down the long, linear narratives

Of ginnells. Careful -

Step over that trail of piss

As it meanders an epic

Safari through micro-canyons

Of uneven tarmac, decades old.

These aren't merely pathways

But assault courses set up

To test the balance and bearing

Of men too drunk, now, to drive home.

There's one, enjoying a final

Indulgence alone. He cups

A sputtering lighter to his face

And recomposes himself

To look sober and unguilty

Before opening a door

On the wife and bollocking

He accepts on behalf of all

His sorry age and sex..

Leave him and his sins to sleep.

Come morning, we'll be

Tramping down raggedy tunnels,

Hot on the heels of the postman,

Or, later, where feral kids

Rose-bud windows for a dare.

You see how ginnells work on us?

The angle adjusts itself

Finely, the incline slips away

And this self-same depository

For crisp-packets and coke cans

Becomes a sudden keyhole

Into a lonely man's epiphany.

At the telescope's far end

There's something on plain brick

You never would've thought

Worth setting sights on. Look, now -

By way of all that's no longer

There to distract you from it. Light.

What do you mean you can't see it?

Vision is not Essential

In March, when the light comes on strong

I can feel the difference on my skin

And it always triggers a memory

Of the laburnum. The stems are weighed down

With petals heavy as grapes - so yellow -

I'd never seen anything make better

Use of the light between clouds - each cup

Bodied and brimming with the gift of it.

When I hear youngsters swearing in the road -

Their heavy footballs ringing hard off walls -

I think of the laburnum. Above the fags

And beer cans, the tips of its stems

Are beckoning the light - directing it in

To land and ignite the bulbs in my head.

The Sound of Sense

Two gangs o' lads clashed in T' Man'ole car park; one local

and t'other - Steve reckoned -'ad legged it from Halton Moore,

tanked up and giving it blah, blah, blah. Spenner's girlfriend

said they were druggies, screggers, council-wallahs. Law piled in -

two meat vans an' a dog van - so punctual you'd think

they were expectin' t' Brighton Bombin'. It were past ten.

Chris 'ad been 'ard at it since six. E'd nipped for a fag

an' a breath of second wind when 'e saw two coppers

'ad pinned one lad face down amongst t' broken pop bottles,

while another took a running kick at same cub's 'ead

like 'e were attempting a conversion. Our officers

of t' peace didn't welcome an audience; soon enough

t' strong arm were bearing on Chris wi' some words o' caution.

Chris said 'e would've laughed in their faces but e'd had

run-ins before and knew this wasn't right time or place

to make like a protest singer. They dragged t' laddy off

into t' meat van, and as Chris were walkin' back up t' steps

to t' tap-room 'e sez 'e could 'ear this pup screaming summat

like 'get it out o' me, get it out o' me…' When I asked

What all that were about Chris gave me a look and said

at my age it were time I worked things out for mi sen.

The Last Workday Before Christmas

i.

They'd had me facing flak from angry suppliers

wanting final payments before the Christmas break.

The policy round here was make the bastards wait

then wait some more - until you broke their trust for good.

Phone call after phone call was leaving me uptight -

that's why I locked my desk and binned my party hat

and blew my final afternoon in The Turk's Head.

Alone made perfect sense. I drank another toast

to liquidation soon.

A young guy in a suit

flirted with the staff: he bought everyone a round

and his smile was sunlight off stacked corporate windows -

blinding. I could see him with my job, fast-tracking

through jammed figures in dodgy books - a magician

disco-dancing through the Great Wall of China.

I downed three flat pints, each with a whisky chaser

before I bristled through the crowds to the station.

ii.

On the teeming platform a woman with your smile

and ballet-dancer's poise had reached out for the arm

of a disembarking student - and he'd waltzed her.

I thought of the scene awaiting me back home - you

sleeping off another binge on the unmade bed;

fresh cigarette burns following an artery.

Once, I thought I'd be the one to make a difference,

but you re-invent your story every day. Love,

I've no idea what I'm supposed to bring you now.

As the train picked up its speed I let its motion

press me in my seat; imagined we were a shuttle

climbing high into the violet smoke that floated

from the brewery.

When I slumped off at Crossgates

frost was icing the grit on the far embankment

like Christmas Past. I spied my teenage self, kicking

and dancing amongst the crystals of broken glass

in a bus-shelter. Something shifted in my guts,

warping through my breath. It all came back to me then -

a moment like his with no thought of the future.

I fretted my keys and looked back at the city -

lit up with the small lights of other people's lives.