................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Allen Ansell...............................................................
CALAIS’ SUNSET STRIP
You hold onto the memory, and feel yourself being pulled...
I watch the kite skip and flip
in a cold northerly wind.
It bites at my cheeks,
and gives my ears a nip,
tussles my hair ruggedly -
with as much abandon
as the long yellow ribbon
of the kite’s wriggling tail.
The young boy is nothing.
Featureless. A grey outline
in front of a weak winter sun.
His glee borne on the wind
like a seagull’s cry, but,
in indiscernible French.
His feet rattling the cold pebbles
of Calais’ sunset beach.
Watched by an adult male
with suave scarf buffeted
and dragged about his neck.
Hands dug deep in comfort's
pockets, his face lit with pride,
he bends his knees in unison
with the highs and lows of flight -
barely disguising his paternal delight.
Tears form in my eyes,
and I don’t have to question
if the wind brought these too,
for all those years ago,
I’m remembering right now,
on Hilly Fields we, two kids,
would launch my kite to fly...
just my gleeful dad and I.
CONSUMMATION’S COLOURS
I remember the day. (It is a day no-one can forget.)
Strands of golden web abound,
and silver ties here with there.
There is a settling of old bones -
yet not as old as might have been;
the days, scythed away, silently.
The rouge has drained from the skin;
has dripped relentlessly
from the open wound of disease.
And even though this blight was there
the spirit still maintained your life.
Now, pallid grey-blue’ish tones
suck my eyes to see him -
He with his lowered jaw, and lids,
and I see the face of the Christ
hung from the cross… elongated.
Violet heralds the advent
of his life’s certain moment -
and though I do not want its touch
to come upon my dying dad,
I wish it not to more delay.
The cold blue mist of silence
descends on the Friday ward.
The air is stilled and dust motes stay
suspended, as is life itself.
Now his occult breath is easy.
colours mist my tearful eyes -
selfish tears of my sorrow
for too much time spent divided;
not wept for him who gave me life -
he is beyond the need of them.
Britain never gave him gold
for inhaling it’s wartime dust -
making weapons for the devil.
No medal to pin on his chest -
there is
just the touch of my pale-pink hand.
HAYSTACK DAY
Once upon a time...
She and I - hand in hand.
Her with those long
skinny bare legs,
and the diaphanous white blouse
that the sun
could see straight through...
Long blonde hair - curls about.
Ringlets hanging
onto my arm,
and the delicious tickling
on my skin -
my true love true...
Blue court shoes - matt with dust.
Sinuous feet
matching my pace,
and the excitement of lust
she and I
both felt, both knew...
Dry gold hay - stacked up high.
Lips as sweet as
pink, candy, floss,
breasts to vellicate my tongue,
hands that sought
to touch me too...
Sweet moist dew - slick and smooth.
And in that place
where passion flies,
she gave, unsullied, and free,
her precious
gift, so brand new...
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