The Journey

Ambling lazily as usual, I rested for a moment on the crumbling dry stone dyke and watched clouds gather. I turned the flowers in my hand over once more, examining them closely. Would she like them? Would the rain start before I got there? Would I manage back up the hill at all? Did it matter?

I heard the bells of the old church chime eleven times. One more to go, I thought.

When I got there, I laid the flowers down, where none were there before and said my last farewell. It was time to go, rest in peace.

On Display

Aug2017I’d been doing this for years. Years! Ever since I left school and old Mr Withers took me in as a young shop assistant, first working in shoes, then shirts, and finally suits. I like a good tailored suit and I’m really good at what I do, everyone always says so.

‘Why don’t you modernise the window display?’, says Mike – I have a degree – married into the family – Arsehole McManus.

‘What’s wrong with it?’, I ask, ‘it’s showing the range of suits we have’. What more could we do and what was ‘modernising’ a display all about anyway?

So he brings in young Larry, who still sucks his thumb, on day release from art college or somewhere useless like that. And Larry creates this window montage of random mess, as if that’s how men keep their rooms these days. It was an insult.

I felt sorry when Larry’s body was discovered, not for Larry, obviously, but his mum on the telly looked really distraught. Apparently his head was all caved in as though smashed by a brick. They never did find the murder weapon.


Under books, work, the weight of the world,
Fierce shadows lurk, and sit beside me curled,
As though a cat, purring asleep,
But ready to pounce, leap
Upon my lap, claws ready, sharp,
A heartless stab, jab, scratch and tear,
If I should I dare
Pull myself up to breathe,
It would not sheathe
Those talons,
Instead all would fall
In gallons
Of books, work, the weight of the world,
In one swift flurry,
Completely bury.