Labelled an extrovert by others,

Yet an introvert in my own head.

Unable to believe those who say

A bright future lies ahead.

 

Between a rock and a hard place,

Stuck with a job I’d rather avoid.

Incapable of pursuing my dreams,

Fearful of being unemployed.

 

And then there’s the elusive girl,

So clear in my mind’s eye.

Who fails to materialise,

And I can’t fathom why.

 

Confused by society’s rules,

And by why I’m losing the game.

When all I seek is happiness and love,

Not fickle fortune and fame.

 

Emotions fluctuating daily,

From hope to outright despair.

Hunting for my clothes,

Now that life has stripped me bare.

When I was younger and my granddad’s
hand still fit snug
in mine,

I learnt that birds
fly south for the winter.

“That’s ridiculous,”
I said.
“How do they find each other
again when they get
home?”

He looked at me then,
tore his eyes away
from the ocean –
I thought it stretched on forever –
and told me;

“Someone wise once said
that home is where
the heart
is,
and I suppose
that if they stay together
then they can’t get
far lost.”

I didn’t understand; home
was blackberries and
tea and the smell
of Sunday dinner
on Tuesday;

but later that night
as I walked
by the sea, I
saw footprints –

the sand was scarred

and etched with curling toes
and heels.

Two sets intertwined, and I
felt warm, as though
my mother had wrapped me in blankets
and set me
on her knee,

and I…

How are you, Mrs McVittie?

How are you and yours?

The girls they must be twenty now?

A pair of filthy whoors.

 

How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Is your Bertie still all right?

I’m concerned about his knuckles

Since the checkpoint, Friday night.

 

How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Will young Jimmy be home soon?

Eighteen months seems very harsh

For two revolvers in his room.

 

How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Did you get the roof replaced?

It’s a pity that your seven flags

Were Provisionally displaced.

 

How are you, Mrs McVittie?

Sure the news is always sad.

Don’t you hanker for the times before

When only dreams were bad?

 

How are you, Mr McVittie?

Do you like my little verse?

Did I see a woman looks like you

Spitting on the hearse?

 

What’s that you say, Mrs McVittie?

Is my mother back to health?