In Search Of Michelangelo

This morning I shaved my pubic hair

For tomorrow I have to go for a scan

I had no choice but to remember...

But it was only the once, wasn’t it

Our wanton days left way behind

Our carefree bathroom adventures

Not now to be repeated

Not now to stoke your mind

I am taken to Helen Dunmore’s poem

Wild Strawberries; in my heart

And in my soul I hold onto that sense

Of things just beyond, life just out of reach

I did nick two bits of skin

With my inexpensive electric razor

I didn’t bother with plaster, but

I did splash on the after shave

I don’t recall what we did, back in the day

Or what we might have done

Had the bathroom revamp been completed

Hi-ho, once more caught out by the plumbing

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Provisions

The pieces of cold dry toast

Leftovers

From this morning’s Writer’s Cafe

Remind me

Of the Swedish crisp-breads

We bought in the Red House Supermarket

Today my topping is Aldi’s Cheese spread

With Honey-Roasted Salmon flakes

The whole thing taken with a pot of tea

Back in the day, long before 2004

We would have had Port Salut cheese

Perhaps with a bottle of Muscadet

Yet the real joy was in the shopping

To walk hand in hand, down the aisles

Excitedly making our Friday teatime choices

At the end of it all we lived in a small village

It had a petrol station, a Co-op, a general store

The owners of which also delivered newspapers

I would often buy a pie or a pastie there

On my way to work, I might even say

Good morning, to your friend, with a warm smile

I don’t believe that she ever, not purposefully

Came between us, though I thought you

Might have sought-after her freedom for life

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Tanned

I had been once before to St Malo

On my way to an industrial complex near Lille

We travelled on the ferry from Portsmouth

Me, with my practical, my technical colleague

What is on your mind

As you lean on, as you look over the sea wall

Across the narrow road from the cafe

Your body language says you are resigned

Are you beginning to despise me

With my bullish, brutish, yob-like ways

Have you fallen from love

Have I collapsed the scaffolding

Do you blame yourself, time after time

For not managing the rhythm method

Do you curse at the predicament

You found yourself in, once again

Are we halfway from the end

The end of whatever we had

Are the photographs I take

Only for a far away happiness

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Cloth, Tailor

The turquoise denim jacket

Has an end of sleeve detail

Which I didn’t notice before

With your arm hung straight

The sleeve-end weight

Causes it to hang plumb

It is the right hand, and arm

Which I study

Caught at first by the sparkle

Of the semi-precious stone

In the ring

On your third finger

It is not a young hand

Yet not so obviously old

As mine, nevertheless

It has seen toil; the sort of toil

Which I was once so famous for

It became an obsession, almost

To fund a just beyond lifestyle

To buy immeasurable presents

Up to almost the final departure

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Seasonal

Will this be the only year

Will there be another year

Will there be a book of years

Is one whole year

Way too long

To try to comprehend

As the tightrope supports

Are raised from the ground

At the end of winter

As the access ladders

And platforms are fixed

Throughout springtime

As the sheer joy

Of walking the high-wire

Sustains us through summer

As the first steps of decay

Enter quietly but steadfast

Towards the back end of autumn

As the snap comes upon you

Others also begin to notice

The disharmony of winter

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