PELMINHEY
Work changes you; that’s the truth of it,
and magic is real, the light at light’s grave
too easy to steal. For any reward the soul
must be given to doubt, hardship they say,
and our stealing days are done.
At Seacombe Ferry, the river reflects the
new stadium. We write the names of dead
friends on matchboxes, tear them to pieces
and wait for the water to take them.
Al’s won’t go, and flutters back with the spin.
In our new life, there are other lights.
Lucky Dragon, Houlihan’s, the floodies
at Poulton. We follow them back through
the quickening dusk toward Pelminhey
and the red house; the dog in the dark window,
blessed mouths that want feeding.
SECOND TRIMESTER
You could go all night back then without
seeing anyone
running from the Ridgeway to the ralla
because you missed the meet up,
to manipulate the moon was key
then mould it into a searchlight.
These are the days we used to say, the
days of silver halos expanding in our hearts.
I recall the night some kid was out; a
footballing prospect from Prenton
they were treated like deities the
really good players
new clothes, friends protecting them
from the drugs
when we heard we went to all the pubs asking after him
that we might catch a glimpse
to stand for a second in his
reflected glory.
Was it better, that old world? You don’t
want to come across a moaner
but on my life, I don’t want to give my
every thought to the internet,
working for it all day while the world spins
I still believe in the soul, the human soul,
and perhaps these are the caveats. It doesn’t
much exist in that
place…the soul I mean. That’s the way I feel,
anyway, dnbu.
Like Jody used to say in her second trimester,
the new baby turning gently
inside her, fingernails bitten to the
moon- we’d be sat up on the subby roof,
legs dangling down-
It was a holy act she thought, sacred, pure
and worthy of canonisation
just to find somebody’s eyes in the dark
and smile.
SUPREME BEINGS
Remembering Alan Birkenhead,
shadowboxing on the Astro at midnight
after the Calzhage fight, clean-shaven for
court in the morning
us stood there, watching, gawping,
above him the unending star of Tesco, the
moon over Tesco;
flashes of sheet lightning that broke
the week’s heatwave
then warm tropical rain that blew in from
Seacombe, to drench him and our open hearts,
I knew nothing before this moment.
You despair sometimes in these days of
great change-
I love the freedom of wild grass
and sky beneath the earth
the bonfires at Woodchurch
ingresses of deep feeling
where God is close enough to
feel
yet still far away
on my life
my life
my wasted life
what did it mean if it all means
nothing?
I’m not afraid to die, I sang to myself
all the way home,
breathless, sprinting across
the flooded
empty motorway.
*
Nick Power is a musician and author from Wirral, Merseyside. He has written six collections for erbacce-press, including tour diary Into The Void. His new collection is its sequel. Bright Angel Proof can be purchased here.
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