A Poppy

The safe unlocked and a key to the front-door pieced in my hand.  The warm Saturday morning air lies still and heavy round the house.

Entrance - stark, sharp stained-glass.  Red and green shards of diffracted light on the varnished wooden floor.  There is a Japanese lacquered vase on the shelf in the hall, beside it a single red poppy.  She's barely conscious as I come through to her bedroom.  My younger brother is there.  He shows me the ropes, the stash of liquid morphine to dull the pain, the crumbled paracetamol to sprinkle over her food, and then we are alone together.

I hold her hand.  The skin is wafer-thin, stretched taught across her twisted arthritic bones.  She trembles slightly and awakes, her eyes rheumy and heavy-lidded.  I think she recognises me for a second, and then she is gone once more, chasing down the pain toward another fitful sleep.

I sit beside her, at peace.

We talk at intervals throughout the day - sometimes lucid, sometimes not.  Dear Uncle Malcolm, just married and riding his courier motorcycle across some distant Asian island.  Invaded.  The Japanese took his life, and the single poppy bears memory.  She remembers him each day.  An unmarked grave in a distant place.

She wanders in and out of consciousness.

We're off on holiday now, I don't know quite where. I run down an ice-cream van for her, and two precious spoons of melting sugar pass her lips.  At peace, and the light holds her for a second, breathing.

"Where is she?"  Waking fitfully again, she calls, "You can tell me, I won't cry."  Hilary died many, many year ago, the wheels of her bicycle spinning uselessly.  And she is here with us.  Captured in a black and white photograph on her bedside table.

We pass the day together.  Walking the dead .. endless.

A Show

Grass cross-baked past the overcast skies, and we approach the show.

And steam the crowds in search.  They walk through us, unbidden and unnoticed, all sugar and bones in the afternoon heat.

Wake, my heart, and chase me through the thin white plumes.

Into the dreams of a Sunday show...

Pictures of Living

Trained

Endless Train

Three random connections from an endless train journey.

He was American; stepped on the train. Long, lanky hair framing a middle-aged moustache. Lean and tanned, he wore a carefully pressed grey suit, a grey shirt. And why the bright orange shoes? His face was crevassed. I wished I had the courage to say, "Could I take your photograph, Sir. You look interesting".

The return journey, and I read a book that explains the spread of syphilis in Brooklyn. It's interesting. The seat in front of me is occupied by a young Indian lady. She speaks louder and louder into her mobile telephone. The language is a curious mixture of English and Indian, and the conversation becomes more heated. I lean forward and cough discretely. Later she passes by my seat pushing the drinks trolley. She apologises for speaking so loudly and I smile.

They will be lovers. In just a few moments I will hear their hushed, excited, exploratory voices. I know they will kiss and part endlessly. They will be lost in it.

This is my train journey.

Who can bear to look ...

... floating