7 Poems of Place

Loughborough

David’s decided to celebrate

his birthday two months late.

He looks better than last time

I saw him, not so near the cemetery.

*

‘Thought about you earlier,’ I say.

‘Thought about you, too.’

‘Should’ve put that book in my bag.’

I text Rob to meet here, instead.

*

The dogs love The Grinder.

Polly’s took to drinking dregs

from our palms and seems a tad

tipsy after her personal micro-beer-festival.

*

Later, in The Phantom, David

buys each of us a burger and pint.

Polly trails a rat, barks at an ivy,

tries to dig the astro-turf.

Of You, with Flowers

Of you, with flowers

in your hands

*

scabious, harebell, gypsy rose

campion, burnet, Bradda weed.

*

You skip down Micklow Lane

alone, even then,

*

in meadows

or observing tadpoles

*

in the glassy water

of the spring-fed

*

limestone trough

next to the shed

*

where you found

the dead sheep,

*

birthing no joy

for this ewe.

*

Chubby, glasses,

friends few

*

but you knew

all the names

*

of the flowers

back then.

Leicester

Pass the Clock Tower

to hip hop rap about

‘How we know.’

Someone offers the Big Issue:

decline, walk on.

Clarinet soars

over squawk of traffic.

Not quite blue skies

speak of things to come.

In a shop window:

Everything Must Go.

Skeggy In the Rain

We shelter,

sit, sip

cheap

bitter coffee.

*

We smoke,

watch

the pedalo

man

*

give up

for the day-

*

he wades

into

the middle

of the lake,

*

puts his boats

away.

Fox

The dog-fox,

bush-tail straight out

behind him

trots along the pathway

through the middle field.

I’m at the gate, staring

towards Bleak Knoll.

The den’s in Intake Dale,

its entrance

a slender fissure

in the limestone crag.

I check it regularly,

like the way

my Basset Hound

patrols the garden

of a morning.

Once, I put my ear

to the fissure, hoped

to hear the family within.

Years later,

I went back, found

the entrance

blocked

by boulders.

Sitting on a Rock

I read poetry

to the estuary

and mountains,

*

words

of one

of their own.

*

The road

to Fairbourne

is too far,

*

afternoon’s

shadows

too long,

*

currents

too swift.

I turn back,

*

take photographs

of a lone

fisherman

*

on a sandbank

underneath

the footbridge.

*

Even the Rhinogs

cannot

console me.

What I Did In Lincoln

In a bookshop

I look for books

on the list of

books to be read.

I buy a John Hegley

book instead,

and some ewes cheese

from the Cheese

Society— it’s a bit pricey

but it entices me,

as does a Fugs LP

from that delightful

rarity: the record shop.

These seven poems first appeared online in 2019 pinned to the Places of Poetry project, which can be found at https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk