illustration: Ian Carrington
Ice Cream
i.m. Ray Gosling
Summat’s nagging, sense of a good day over,
knowing I can’t bump into you again
at stations, on trains, in The Vicky Centre.
Punk white hair, something of the rocker
in well-draped jacket, light shirt,
drainpipes. Always contentious:
‘wear what’s costly with knock-off,’ talk
harnessing pure Notts, we sat in Derby Station’s
Costa, gassing so long I’d missed two trains.
‘Keep going, just keep going’s my advice,’
then, in wicked earshot of the staff:
‘these Derby folk are slow.’
Fondant-centred Arthur Seaton, bird boned
through Ted jacket as we hugged goodbye
for what might be the last time, but it wasn’t
that was on a chilly afternoon (the Vicky where
it felt less brass monkey). Waving at me, Granddad
fashion, said: ‘hello, love, can I buy you an ice cream?’
Overheard on the Threes*
‘I were disgustin’ as a child.’
‘Were yer?’
‘I used to wet mi sen in public, regular as Granddad’s clock.’
‘That’s nothing, duck.’
‘Ent it?’
‘Neah. I used to suck the legs off rain beetles.’
She gathers bags about, looks almost satisfied.
‘Did yer?’
‘Aaah.’
‘What are rain beetles? Sweets?’
‘No! Beetles, you know. They come out in rain, proper beetles.’
‘Never heard of em.’
‘You have.’
It’s clear she hasn’t.
The other woman shifts,
uncomfortable as fellow passengers tune in.
‘What do you mean, you never heard of beetles! Are they sweets!’
‘Are they like spiders then?’
‘No, they’re chuffin’ beetles! Like, like, cockroaches.
‘Urgh! And you sucked legs off them!’
‘Said I were disgustin’.’
They leave the bus via Abbey Road, though not the one
frequented by the Beatles.
*The Threes – Nottingham to Sutton-in-Ashfield bus service.
Hucknall Clay
Pasty Lord Byron poses from his alcove
above shoppers’ heads,
looking down on him and the Market Place,
sun-struck roofs bake to toffee.
Signage returns, FEED MERCHANTS, SEED,
something that could say MANAGEMENT.
Look up, then close your eyes to hear
the heart of this is beating below your feet,
Byron hears it too, chatter of bricklayers
weighed by hods, garments caked to stone.
Girls appear, bring earthenware bottles
their stoppers made of marbles.
Brickies to make this town rise, then sign-painters
outline slogans, working men will sing,
curse, bellow … longing all the while for girls
and babbies, or a hasty pint.
Sun melts them, sons of rest,
back to red clay again.
On Reading Anna Adams on the Train
and Realising
the Butterfly on our Ceiling wasn’t Dead …
Assuming him closed for business I marked
the shut fan of his wings, thought angle-
poised legs, their cling to ceiling
nature’s posthumous trick.
Fortunately, not yet tested with feather duster,
or Hoover nozzle prodded his settling place,
now just as well.
For I’ve just read your ‘Tortoiseshells Overwintering’
through elegant lines realise him hibernating.
Will he shadow that slight patch all winter,
wake too early, falling to form a beech leaf
on the carpet? I wish him tremor
of early sun
but not full shivered flight
until more clement season
so let him stay
dark origami
until summer calls.
My Years as a Failed Perfumer
After school, witnessing mums stroke scent behind ears,
on wrists, we coveted cast-off bottles, names luminous –
Mitsouko, Shalimar, elegant Je Reviens
(Grandma, hearing a salesgirl’s translation:
‘I will return,’ said, ‘no, love, that’s no good,
I want to buy it now.’)
Aunts’ Tweed, Margaret Rutherford dependable.
We were allowed solid Blue Grass, 4711
precious in medallion-labelled flagon.
‘You can mek scent, me Mam says,’
Alison insisted, recipe recollected
decades on:
Rose petals, vinegar, mint, brown sugar;
add water, mix-in cornflower, stir;
steep in a bucket (first take out the spade);
check regularly; let stand for two days;
pour in assembled bottles
using Bettaware funnel.
Meanwhile, we traced starry blossoms, deco lettering
on jam-jar stickers, sniffing that acid brew
knew these wasted.
Not bearing the final product on ears or wrists,
mums politely turning down eau de tea leaves … drain …
Scent, Christmas pudding furring in a pantry.
Je Revien’s blue grandeur, wrapper’s cupid
warning next year we’d try again, girls who,
like perfumed petals, would return.
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