A gloved white middle finger, missing
the rest of the pack lingers
for a moment
at the far-right extreme of the shelf,
piercing nostrils hooked
on polish, can smell the residue
of a frenzied cleaning session,
but there is always a spot missed,
uncared for, rushed, each shelf
she demands being cared for,
the books must always be in order,
never to allow a single mite
of seeded dust to be encountered;
with a bitter smile of contempt, her finger
swipes a molecule of dust, and the maid knows
I could build a fort
out of the boxes
stacked up,
almost threatening me with insecurity
and false hope, a twin assault
on my nerves as I lead up
to the big day.
Fort anxiety, Fort Pride comes before a fall,
Fort…possibility, Fort…no, Garrison of optimism,
I didn’t sign up to the French Foreign Legion
or to be the bag man at Custer’s last stand,
this Norman tower I build from boxes
filled with the death of trees, Pulp Fiction,
is today the stronghold in which I
It was just a brush of lips
from what was at first a passing
stranger, undecorated, unperfumed,
more than a hint of beauty
tucked away in foreign,
never to be explored shores,
a stranger that came to represent so much more,
a passing of daily time, now
separated by sea and the once only,
never to be repeated kindness
of such youthful female gaze;
it was just a brush of lips,
that I would never taste again.
Ian D. Hall 2018
I have shaken
the hand
of a man
who went on
to become a President,
and told a former
Prime Minister to sail away.
I have been certain of where I am
half way round the world
yet still felt lost
as I looked into the eyes of love, never sure
how I managed to lose
my bearings and my heart
in such a small leap.
I have witnessed death
and blood congealing in my lap,
I have helped a cow give birth
When a Queen dies, the lowly
page doesn’t know how to pencil
down his thoughts, no confidence
in the might of the pen
or the edge of the sword,
his tears fall to the ground,
silently and with no forever favour
in his heart; for who is there to please
now that the Queen is dead.
Her other loyal subjects
feel the pain of passing with intensity,
the page carries on, there are wars to be fought
and his master, that of time,
The freshly battered chip shop
saveloy drips its grease
slowly across my yesterday’s news
face, a picture, I hoped,
of intrigue and stately poise,
preserving in time a pose
that will adorn a thousand books,
now already out of time,
already an article
lost to the age of the once staple
and not rationed meal, eat
your fill, no coupon required
and let the batter fill your heart
completely and forever, whilst
the day I appeared in my local paper
is remembered for placing
It might not be the first
place, this town in Worcestershire,
that you deliberate over with
ponderous ambition
but perhaps Kidderminster
should have a thought, a moment
of attention, as the rising steam
and black grumpy cloud
muddle together with the song
of yesterday, vapour
on the wing as the Harriers take the game
by the scruff of the neck
and equalise, last minute or so,
saluted by days gone by
as supporters walk
with drawn point faces
through the haze of nostalgia
Not big
on small talk,
the gossip of the television
or the town, occasionally
the ears hear something,
a word or two
on the bus coming home,
and I wonder if my earphones
have fallen out,
to be able to overhear
the excited chatter
of who loves who, marries who, hurts who,
snogs who, betrays who, who made who
care, but then, like an infection
you get caught up in silent
observance, and marvel at the beauty
of animated earwiggery, of the gestured
We’re on the road to Cromer,
something inside has died,
or was that wishful thinking,
a brass knuckle fight
with myself that leaves me
covered in bruises of scorn.
I knew a man once, who declared
with less than a twinkle in his eyes,
that he had fallen asleep
on a wrought iron park bench,
previously occupied by Norfolk pigeons
and the random blown evening newspaper,
one sunny day in that far off town.
He didn’t wake for a couple of days,
An on-line debate,
normally one to steer clear of
as the night time air
stirs the blood
with condescension
and free-range consumption,
but one as a son of Cornwall
I could not resist
as they played the game
of Scone or Scone,
sunken ships and enemy fire pound the wary feet
as they find no sense
of who’s right
and who is right,
my tuppence worth thrown in
like a hand grenade
with a long pause and no casual victim