The Poems

Market Hill

The bells are barely audible

When George Street meets Market Hill

And the preacher quotes

From the twenty third,

Past McDonalds

They are seldom heard.

And there they stand

Having dashed down the stairs

In gowns and bands.

Past the door to the cells

And there light up, so deep in thought,

The defence barristers of Luton crown court.

Keen eyed and quick, with wits to match,

Like the demon bowler that takes the catch.

These valiant men.

Decent, kind, of quiet disposition

Here, where the bells lack any conviction.

I fear too much defence works

Makes them melancholy

Unlike prosecutors who are always jolly.

And then the legal miss emerges,

Shorn of wig, the girl returned,

With hair set free and softly falling,

But no time to spend with her brothers in law.

And with barely a glance

Or a curt nod towards them

She strides down the hill

To meet me in Debenhams.

An anklet brought us together.

The catch was stuck and couldn't release

The links around the daintiest ankle,

Hidden beneath her black stocking tights.

Like a rabbit trapped in approaching headlights

I stared as she fingered the thinnest of straps.

That went around the slimmest of ankles,

And held the heel and instep tight

The night before she'd worn that chain

Out with her chums and having fun

But there in a dingy bar in Balham

The catch was buggered

Couldn't be undone.

Where we were was spelt lower case,

So it didn't seem strange

Or out of place

When next she said 'My life's a mess,

Could you help me undo it?'

And I said...Yes.

At the top of the stairs

We meet in menswear

And for half an hour

What more could I want.

As we sit at a table

There by the window

With tea for two

In the restaurant.

And talk about 'His Nibs' so stern

About unclipped catches, lipstick and patches

Sunny smiles and briefs returned.

And when Herbert Plum cross examines,

No weary sigh you'll hear from me.

As he tells the jury to turn to their bundle,

Tab eight, page five, paragraph three.

Where once there may have been despair

I sit in the press box and simply stare

As she weaves her hair

Around her finger tips

Once, twice and then again,

And looks at me and then looks closely

For any sign of any split ends.

Sucktown

Like an ugly drunk on an unmade bed

The town sleeps, or is it dead?

No...listen...there, see it stirs

With rasping gasps for putrid air.

Then all is still and quiet again

Like the silent rain on wet black sheds

Where long ago engines revved

But the sheds are empty now and quiet

Sucktown shhhhh. It's downtime come.

I climb the path to Winsdon Hill

And then look back to see it all,

This old grey, cold old motor town,

The urban sprawl that weighs men down.

Where once were fields, all gone forever,

Both crushed and broken in equal measure

By steel and concrete and iron girder.

Men and land entombed forever.

Perhaps at Wardown and maybe at Popes

A glimpse of a time when men had hopes.

Where ancient boughs and willows trail

Around the pond and through the park,

Where the beggars wail and the dogs bark.

Oh come wrecking ball

Swing down hard on the old town hall.

Swing so high you touch the sky

Then down, down on the shopping mall.

Take out next the factory wall,

The warehouse and the hospital.

Smash the casino, scatter the dice,

See them run like frightened mice.

Smash again and smash and smash

Through alleyways where whores stood for cash.

Smash the churches and the mosque

The temple and halls and the synagogue.

Yes, yes, let it begin,

Smash again through the plastic and tin

Clipped together to let them in.

The clipped on windows, stairs and walls

Where apes in overcoats wear clip-on balls.

Free this land that's laced so tight

By road and cable and sewer pipe

Let the earth breath, let it taste the rain

Return this town to the downs again

Where the town hall stands will be a field

Where accountants plough and the bankers till.

And me? I'll start again with Beth

On the harrow cart we'll head west.

Through meadow and woods where the herons nest.

Below Winsdon Hill we'll stop and rest

I Met Jesus In A Bar

I met Jesus in a bar in Bute Street,

It was obvious we'd get on well.

Like me he didn't care for lager,

Like me he liked real ale.

He was quiet and understated,

But a tough guy you could tell.

Told me he was a first fix chippy

With a crew at the Strathmore Hotel.

When I asked him if the pay was good

A laugh turned into a frown.

Showed me the scars on the palms of his hand,

Said the job had its ups and its downs.

The conversation turned to women,

We liked a particular look.

And narrowed it down in the course of a beer

To the actress Sandra Bullock.

We agreed it was the mixture

Of the tom boy, beauty and serenity.

Illustrated best of all, we agreed

In the film Miss Congeniality.

He mentioned a girl called Mary

From Magdala down by the shore.

A girl with seven demons,

Some said she was a whore.

But Jesus cast them out one day

By the laying on of hands.

And she became a follower

When he told her of his master's plan.

I said 'A woman I know could walk up my back

In heels and I wouldn't care.'

Jesus said 'Yeah, that might be true

But would she dry your feet with her hair?'

He knew a guy on the last train home,

Lost and out of time.

He closed his eyes saw the late channel angels

Waiting at the end of the line.

Jesus said 'Fly to the stars, you won't find heaven,

It's everywhere, it's yours and mine.

I'll settle for a woman who knows what she's doing,

Here on earth my woman's just fine.'

Mac

She lives on the south side

Over on The Ring.

Whipperley girl, single still.

Her name is Mac, that's short for Maxine,

Been turning heads

Since she was seventeen.

Smiles when she thinks

About those days,

The late night bus

Getting hot in the rain.

In Park Street West he broke her heart

The bluest eyes could tear her apart

When he squeezed her hand,

Said he worked for The Man.

Said 'Babe come tonight on the Challney run.'

It got a little hectic in the he back of the car,

It got a little frantic if they went too far.

The cops leaned hard.

The Man named names

And gave up the car.

When Danny left the bank

He didn't get far

With the eye in the sky

They were waiting in line,

They watched him die on Tennyson.

And later she gave birth in the dead of night

To his baby girl on the kitchen floor

Her Mumma's nose, Daddy's eyes

She said 'Pretty li'l Darlin'

We're be all right.'

Two peas in a pod

That's Mac and Little Luce,

Lucy's twelve now, still her Mumma's girl.

They do the dishes at night with the radio on.

The hands on the hip, the Boogaloo,

Hey li'l Luce, let the backbone slip.

Now It's late and Lucy's asleep,

Ashley the lodger? He's out playing pool.

She dims the lights, puts on Maxi Priest.

And opens the tin as it's starting to rain.

Take it down deep,

Waiting for the hit.

She thinks about it again,

A little tattoo.

Could be a Chinese sign, a Celtic line.

There on her back, perhaps on her thigh.

Oh yeah... just there, the tumbling dice.

Get it on her hip, going down low.

Waiting for the hit,

Taking it slow.

Just her and the guy

With the sleepy smile,

Wonders now, what he likes to do

What would he make of her little tattoo.

Take it down deep,

Waiting for the hit.

© 2009 Ross Francis