© roy ballard 2012


Ex-wife
At the Plough Inn
after mum's funeral
she gave him a certain look:
questing, tender, sorrowful, intense
and somewhat apprehensive.
It lasted long seconds
or perhaps a lifetime.




Hope makes cowards of us all
Your love oppressed him: it is worth too much;
base metal he was made for, not for gold
which makes him twice a traitor to himself:
for fear of spoiling what he loves to touch
and dread of losing what he longs to hold.

When you were smiling at him, understand
that as your summer dress blew in the wind
hope fled away in cowardly despair
though wishes hung and every hope was pinned
on walking with you always, hand in hand.

So now the stag stands in a wintry way;
in frosty fields he stamps a craven hoof
and waits upon your call in silent air
but he will venture close and offer proof
that hope returns when love has come to stay.



Pygmalion moments
Upon a time when things could not be worse,
like 1940 when we stood alone
our souls are lifted by a cheerful curse:
so Churchill to the errant microphone
when looking wryly at his spattered hat
'The bloody seagulls are dive-bombing us'
and every weary Tommy laughed at that
despite Dunkirk when Hitler missed the bus.

The misdirected hammer hits your thumb
and for a millisecond silence reigns;
how unalleviating to be dumb.
You dance upon the spot to ease your pain
which common imprecations don't dispel;
you utter words unfit to shove down drains
while sending grinning bystanders to hell.

Sad are the moments when one must be mute,
when there is simply no profanity,
no turn of phrase, no idiom to suit
and we must cling to our urbanity.
Once, post coitus, lying on the bed
she said to me 'You're great, I love you Fred
which with a sudden pang dissolved my joy
and left me speechless for my name is Roy.