TEN THINGS ABOUT YOU

 TEN THINGS ABOUT YOU
         that I should like to have genetically modified:

1) the way you snore directly in my ear

2) and when I call, "Food's ready!" disappear
   just long enough for souffles to collapse;

3) your tendency to mumble, "Mmmm ... perhaps
    or, on the other hand, mmmm ... maybe not,"

4) that funny little wart-like, dark red spot
 & 5) on your bald patch, your pigeon-toed left foot;

6) and, while they're at it, get your chin to jut
    a half-inch forward, level with your lips;

7) expand your chest, commensurate with your hips;

8) I hope they can retune your nasal voice;

9) my mother always felt, if she'd the choice,
     she'd modify the somewhat piggy size

10a & b
     and shape and coloration of your eyes;
     in fact she said (I didn't like her tone)
     there wasn't much that she would leave alone

     but since I love you, darling, as you are,
     (almost) I wouldn't venture quite that far.
     So, one last thing (I'll number it 10c)

    you are a bit TOO critical of me.

BUT ONCE A YEAR ...

 BUT ONCE A YEAR ...

it comes, with spiced breath, lugging golden bags

of secret foraging from High Street stores

with packaged cubes of gift-wrap, glitzy tags;

tucks berried sprigs on pictures, over doors,

gilds cards with instant merriment, then makes

a forest emblem, shimmer-lit. It draws

snow scenes on windows, sprinkles icing flakes

of sugar on mince pies, shortbread and calls

a warning to the children still awake.

Throughout this night a frosted silence falls, 

the shambling magic beast has done its trick

again. The waiting time is here and all

the sleepers are the same as minutes tick

towards the dawning of coincidence:

the morning walk in new scarves; kisses; quick

large slurps of sherry; crackers; grand entrance

of turkey to red faces, paper hats

and hopeful dogs. We join in the pretence

that goodwill in the pudding feeds us fat

enough to lose a careless bit each day

until December - when the pit-a-pat

of Christmas padding comes again to play.

The wind is cold ... next year is far away ...

the creature's begging. Why not let it stay?

PROVING THE PUDDING

PROVING THE PUDDING

 I will not ride through fire and ice

to dance at any wedding ... 

after the sugar and the spice

I shall inspect the bedding.

EX LIBRIS

 EX LIBRIS

His books do, without doubt, furnish her room,

and she is grateful, as she always was

- or tried to be - for words bestowed because

of duty and so slightly foxed by gloom.

The pages of his life were rarely filled,

safe margins trapped a joyless, cautious tale,

his chapters structured so he should not fail,

effecting each small climax as he willed.

She could not read him then; now she suspects

the covers hide less even than she thought:

gold titles and calf binding, dearly bought,

enrich and supplement the leanest texts. 

THAT'S MY AFFAIR

 THAT'S MY AFFAIR

The world's well lost - and won - in my new shed, 

the sexy one, Valencia, glazed, now up

to take spare, secret time on French deck-chairs.

It's the epitome of all elsewheres:

illicit Plymouth gins; or extra cups

of morning-after caffeine; Li-lo beds

(with an inflator) for late afternoon;

no clock, no calendar; one side shuts out

censorious houses as I drink to flowers.

The lichened sundial has slipped the hours

since it last rained and yet I fear no drought:

I suck on eau-de-vie in my cocoon.

My dog's still doubtful; she will not come in,

she stands right by the door of my old shack,

the one that holds potatoes, tools and chores,

the lawn mower, pond-net ... the pinafore

I'll wear to garden when someone comes back

and asks me where I was through thick and thin.

AFTER THE PARTY

AFTER THE PARTY

Yesterday the world was double and enveloped in a mist,

Like the fog of a pea-souper in November,

And whom I'd met and what I'd said and whom I'd hugged and kissed

Were lost forever. I could not remember

Arriving home, crawling upstairs or falling into bed,

(The aftermath is time for second-guessing)

And, because of mini-armies waging war inside my head,

I spent a doleful morning convalescing.

The afternoon was better: I had tea and buttered toast

And thought of you (my faculties were clearing):

Handsome, lean, a perfect gentleman, always the thoughtful host

But with little human touches - so endearing!

By evening I was wretched: what must you have made of me

Lurching round your room unsteadily, a danger

To life and limb and peace of mind, a cannon loose at sea,

Telling no-so-funny jokes to any stranger.

This morning is White Monday: everything is crystal bright

Except for: me - I'm gloomy with repentence.

I'll email you or perhaps text or maybe even write:

Please don't judge me with a distant prison sentence.

I'll be different in the future: I'll give up the demon drink,

My behaviour will be lady-like and sober.

But call me back before I change and tell me what you think.

I could start next month - or wait until October.

Do nothing in a hurry was my mother's sound advice,

And, after all, some skittishness is charming.

A triple gin - much later - would be really rather nice,

When I'm merry I am thoroughly disarming. 

Your next-best friend, I recollect, laughed loudly at one pun

And said he found staid women somewhat boring.

As I danced and flirted madly, he declared that I was fun.

Better wake him up now. I can hear him snoring.