Before and Altar

Of course, the Minister was late.
Well - he had to be:
I was getting married
And two not-so-quick halves
At the Six Bells
Before joining two not-so-Christian halves
With church bells
Must have been a necessity.
I didn't mind that so much
But when "What are we doing here?"
Was his first question
I began to wonder and
With "Are you sure you want to
Proceed?"
As his second,
I felt like demanding my
Six pounds for services to be rendered,
Seven pounds fifty for the organist ("He's good."),
Including VAT and the Collection,
Back.
Anyway, he rustled about in his robes
And mumbled about in his beard,
Cried "God for King .. er .. I mean
"Andrew and Anne.
"Let no man pass under."
(With the emphasis on man
As if I'm not allowed any fun.)
He then pronounced Usmananwaif
Rather well
And looked coy
Which must have been the sign
For us to do the necessary -
Kissing ceilings and all that.
Quite enjoyed that bit,
Although we did wonder why
Everyone suddenly stood up.
To get a better view?
No. Photograph time.
When everyone got a chance
To justify wearing
Hats like double Pimms,
Suits like Bonnie & Clyde,
Colgate toothpaste and
Brylcreem.

After that and reception were
All over we headed for Crete
With little evidence of the day
Apart from rings on our fingers,
Smiles on our faces
And absolutely clear consciences
About unaltered passports
Proclaiming us still
Mr and Miss!
"Well .. er .. we forgot .. er .. to change it,
"You see.
"Honestly."

 

16 August 1973

 

Afterthought Before

Dew on the grassy slope -
Each little world of uncertainty
Stretching awake in the twilight.
Where will the sun go?

Blue on a pale cloud -
Coverlet over daily routine
Wrinkled brow of morning.
What colour did night see?

Forget-me-not leaves -
Children on their knees 
Unfurling to remember daytime.
Who'll turn the last page? 

Gold ring on her finger -
Window on another lifetime
Turning again through time.
When shall we meet again?

23 May 1973 Two days before my first wedding, I remember wondering a lot about what it all meant. 

 

Rosyth Halt

Standing in a crowded old carriage,
Red seats covered by grey suits,
Fur coats covered by wickerwork
Baskets.

God! I've missed the stop!
Suppose I'd better get off -
Running in mid air,
Trying to catch up with the platform -
A huge slab of grey steel
Newly forged slipping past
Like an escalator going nowhere,
Gradually.

Following now a small stone path
Of fawn through oily green
There's a bridge over water that
Cannot be seen but
Must be there.
The train looks like a small wooden toy -
But there's no chil;d's hand to push it.

Almost casually the engine turns and
Topples over the edge of the bridge.
Carriages helplessly follow their leader
But there's no child's hand to save them.

Muffled splash is the background of my wonder -
I just stand there feeling rather strange
And very relieved,
Wondering why the hell I got off but
Thanking God that I did.

No house in sight but a shed nearby
That for one second was a phone box
And then for another a signal box
But I enter regardless.
Inside I am just two feet tall
And clambering up to a phone which
Seems to materialise as I think of it.

Some faceless official hands me a coin
For the phone.
He just sits there
In blue, dark blue and black,
Oblivious to the world outside.

Presumably sometime later
I tell them the story in full
But no-one seems to take interest
As I hold out my hand in desperation -
There's no child's hand to hold mine.

 

22 February 1973 From a dream. Rosyth Halt was the old name of a station near the Forth Bridge. Strange.

 

Ours

The front door is a funny purple colour
And the back door lock is stiff
The hot tap leaks and drips all night
And there isn't a bath at all.

But there's you and me and a fire
To keep us warm when it works
And a pile of saved-up shillings
To spend on smiling in the hall.

There's a squeaky bed with a lumpy mattress
And a light that you have to get
Right out of bed for the switch 
And a draught at just the wrong height.

But it's our little flat for
Five pounds a month on Monday
All all that we want is right here.
And it's your turn to turn off the light.

30 January 1973 First home 38 Nelson Street, Kirkcaldy 

 

Still Portrait

In shades of brown
The autumn faded memory
Still lingers;
Youth held in youth
Like the sparkle of water
'Neath Winter frost.
Eyes that still gaze
Through tears and joy
Of long ago now
Look far too young
To love someone of my years.
So far away
In time and istance;
Maybe somewhere I lie too
looking far too young.

30 January 1973  I rented a room in Edinburgh from an old chap who'd come to Scotland from Lithuania, or Latvia maybe, in the 40s. He showed me a few old photos - all the had from his home and family.

How I Wish It Would Thunder

How I wish it would thunder
And the skies darken over
Letting loose an enormous downpour
Of truly torrential rain;
To hear that restless rumble
First overhead, then afar,
Growing steadily fainter
As the sky becomes brighter. 
False fear falls to real relief
When you know it's all over.
How I wish this damn drizzle
Of mournful mist would cease;
Neither more nor less water
Would fall in a great storm,
But this lasts so much longer
As we all wait to smile again.
No-one screams, no-one worries,
No-one runs for shelter in doorways ,
And there are no children's noses
Pressed firmly against window panes,
Nor eyes blinking at lightning,
Or watching skies brightening,
Gazing in wonder.
How I wish it would thunder. 

2 January 1973, Alloa, Scotland

 

Little Shed

I ran into the little shed
For shelter from the storm.
Comforting pine wood panels
Kept me dry and safe and warm.

The lightning flashed,
The thunder roared,
As I played with some sawdust
And drew on some old bits of board.

I drew a picture of yesterday
With my finger in the dirt -
Of sunshine and those blue skies
And the little girl I'd hurt.

I'm drawing pictures now of another day
Called sometime soon and when,
But she'd cried when she saw the rain fall.
Perhaps the sun'll soon shine again?

If it does then she'll forget me
And marry, have children galore,
But I hate the thought of more rain for her.
And wish I'd thought of that before.

The windows are hazy - like my mind.
I reach out to try and clear
But whatever it is that makes me unkind
Is stuck on the outside I fear.

 

October 1972