365 Ways With Words

To End

                                                                    It is a welcome death

                                                                    The path meets the road

                                                                    Sheets tied–gangplank lowered

                                                                                Rest

 

                                                                    The tip of the tail

                                                                    Wags on into the night

                                                                    But I leave the party (we all leave the party)

                                                                    And plod home alone

                                                                                Resign

 

                                                                    Taxiing on runway approach

                                                                    Settle back

                                                                    Only the washing up to do

                                                                    Before lights off

                                                                    Time for a siesta

                                                                                Reset

 

                                                                    Set down finale

                                                                    Within jackets, string and bows

                                                                    From now there is no daily tidy tuck

                                                                                Reserve

Sweet Apples

                                            The scent of sweet apples roams

                                            September’s yielding rain-soaked skin

                                            A transient softness full of hard nose

 

                                            Black mulch mud proudly boot sole sticks

                                            Committing witless with wind-crept aridity

                                            An imprint baked firm dry to remain

 

                                            But such intensity is purloined on the rot

                                            Such richness arced in apple weeks

                                            On and on until to soil they are returned

 

                                            And so are all footfalls set down

                                            Awaiting a raindrop’s destructive power

                                            Or the windly ministrations days ahead

Take It All –

                                        Timelife has flown

                                        And with it my pattering feet

                                        Each baby curl of hair

                                        Whisped into the stiff breeze

                                        A blob of angry Beethoven

                                        Happy Boy!

 

                                        Golden rage departed

                                        Awe – cooled and dampened

                                        Resident of conjecture

                                        Insight and power believed

                                        Emerging Spirit!

 

                                        And in moments between

                                        Awakening and now

                                        Aspirations and cliff-falls

                                        Hooey and crux

                                        Bewilderment and peace

 

                                        On a sparrow's flight

                                        The next day depends

                                        By a slight smile

                                        Dawn breaks

                                        Take it all –

The Scattered Ashes

So it was late when we arrived home. So the dogs needed a walk. So we took them out for a quick wee. So we didn’t bring the leads. So we didn’t –we couldn’t– foresee what would happen.

The reason for moving to a house in the country park was simple: we adopted a dog. Ordinarily this sort of commonplace thing means an adjustment of some sort, perhaps in daily habit, but this dog was different. He came as a pair.

To make this clear, I must explain that before the move to Hong Kong, we kept a beautiful (and rescued) Irish Wolfhound whose head was above my own when standing on his hind legs. He was a bounder—a real sight hound who enjoyed tearing off to the opposite side of a field because a hare had lazily lolloped beside a hedge. I can recommend no gentler nor more family-friendly a dog than a Wolfhound. When word came to us that an English Mastiff in the Sai Kung Country Park was similarly in need of rescuing and of proper care and attention, my interest was piqued. How many other people in Hong Kong had the experience necessary for large dog care?

I drove over to meet the Campbells, a missionary couple who were about to leave Ko Tong Ha Yeung to carry out work in Cambodia. They had seen 'Buster' hiding in the surrounding forest; this emaciated ghost-like apparition hid from all human contact. He had injuries, was scared witless, and would only approach the village houses in the dead of night and then only to drink from stagnant water and rummage for scraps. In the evening these kind souls left him food, each time a little closer to the house, until eventually they succeeded in trapping him into the enclosed space behind the gate where he immediately succumbed to their kindness. I was moved by their compassionate story, patting as I did so the other dog of the house, Batty. She was a very bright lanky and hairy ginger thing who, I was to find out, was to be taken along with Buster. The Campbells incidentally enquired if I liked any of the furniture they were thinking of leaving. And what about the house? Before the afternoon was out, I had acquired a mastiff, his ginger matey, some second-hand furniture and a new house way out in the wilds of Hong Kong!

Buster and Batty were good for each other: she was bright and intelligent and a more sociable dog I have never known, whereas he was scared of sticks, umbrellas and newspapers, thunder, Chinese people and sudden noises—in fact, he was an emotional wreck. It must be assumed that he had been severely mistreated. On top of that, he had severe heartworm, suffered poor blood condition and required fattening up. Our new life in the country park unfolded into a wonderful experience and with six months of care and trust things had also become much better for him – just in time for another addition to the family.

Brenda had been angered by seeing another smaller female English Mastiff that had been kept in a cramped pet shop window cage for some months. It was about time this poor animal was released. With the assistance of a good local vet and neighbour who promised all sorts of animal welfare trouble should the irresponsible pet shop owners not quickly sell the animal on the cheap, Bella was brought home. A soppy pup, she quickly grew into Buster's tan-coloured female companion, enjoying the same love of open water and stinking dead fish and was eager for soft affection. For a little more than one year the three dogs were happy together. And then two more turned up.

The domestic helpers in the village had been feeding two pups located beneath the roadbridge. Their swollen little bellies were suffering from too much kindness. And so whether they wanted it or not, the black and white pair were rescued, de-flea'd and formally introduced to Buster, Batty and Bella. We had difficulty naming them, but for some reason the names Squiddly and Diddly stuck. The two pups were semi-feral and required a little seasoning and training. But now we were 5. And all, except for Batty and Buster, were inexperienced youngsters.

Perhaps I should also mention at this point that at this time we had in addition acquired 4 cats!

The combination of animals in the family home certainly made for a lively time. The dogs suited long walks by the rivers and beneath the trees of the park, but their sociability together also formed them into a pack. Being naturally chauvinistic, they handled better under dominant hands, but whoever held the five leads had to content with other pets and pet owners. They had already met, and scrapped, with another well-meaning couple's five dogs that lived in the next village. Thus, the bad blood had been drawn: historical antipathy for canines is never far from the surface—without socialising, they just don't forgive each other.

So the night came at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, when these two packs found and fought each other. Amid the cacophony of barks and yells, I held onto big Buster as Brenda sought to intervene. Unfortunately, the other pet owners also put their hands in and were severely bitten by Bella intent on wiping out the opposition to her cherished new pack. Once fur had flown and blood had been spilt, I ran to meet them and apologised. It seemed there was little pleasantry to be said, and I felt there was only one course open to me: Bella had to go.

To keep a large dog is a responsibility. To keep a large dog that has drawn human blood is to invite condemnation as an irresponsible dog owner—quite apart from my own issue of trust. Why wouldn't she do it again? It was her job to protect the pack.

With a heart heavier than lead, I drove with her the next morning to the vets in Sai Kung and held her in the treatment room as the injection was administered. At the very last moment, she looked quizzically into my face: what was I doing? Was this a punishment? She was only doing her job...

I had to have a brandy to steady myself. I had taken away her life, the one that had been rescued, and for what? Things are simple in the mind of a dog, and her actions, although condemned by humankind, were natural and normal for her own. The next day, Christmas Eve, I took all the dogs for a long walk to the end of the Wan Tsai peninsula and sat alone taking in the view and weighing my actions of that night. If only we had brought the leads. If only we had left 5 minutes later instead of rushing out. And I sat to weep copious tears; for her, for having been irresponsible, for my betrayal, and for my stupid sense of duty.

New Year's Day the following year, Bella's ashes were scattered at her favourite place on the Wong Ma Tei hilltop above Wong Shek pier. And I love her still.

The Hidden Pools

First one, then two, and then three: the secrecy deepens as the path rises.

There is no bus stop or car park. From the Hoi Ha Road at the bridge, the scene is unwelcoming. Before the eyes is the high wall of a concrete dam that captures the river’s constant flow, diverting it several miles to the bright and unnaturally blue High Island reservoir. The inquisitive will not—indeed should not—use this pool: access is treacherous where it is not protected by wire, and it is made from dangerous undercurrents.

The scruffy path weaves over a trickling riverbed and through a succession of cumbersome, clambering boulders and curtains of knife-like grasses until it is clear the sandy trail leads somewhere. Within minutes the outside world has gone, and the final few metres are more forgiving—the welcoming pool opens to the sky.

It is difficult, even in the coolest winters, to resist the urge to strip off and plunge beneath the little wavelets. Alone it is a place of silent contemplation, in company a natural noisy playground. From the edge, the shallow rocks fall away into deep green depths. From there the little fishes come and stare; they come to eat whatever is cast. They are naturally wary; bigger fish and herons await a momentary snack.

The clear river churns milky only in the powerful mid-summer deluges. At those times the white water brilliantly cascades over the rocks to create falls fit for a jigsaw puzzle photo. At other times, the summer heat promotes a coating of slippery algae over each rocky sluice—treachery at every footfall.

There has been death here, of the reckless and the foolish. It adds the piquancy of inevitable mortality to skyward heads afloat in the languid flow. By itself, nature thinks little of infinity. That is our job.

Pushing further up the path, more rocky pools will appear—shallow and irregular. From them the framed opening between the trees on either side allows for the monolith of Sharp Peak to arise. But above the second cataract can be found the next deep pools. Reached by fern-covered path, they are more secluded, more withdrawn; they lend themselves further to sun-kissed afternoon privacy, both of body and mind. Life, work and everything else seems a very long way away.

The course beyond is progressively rougher and must be actively sought. Splitting from the track that leads away to the hilltops, it suddenly descends into mysterious undergrowth only to appear again beneath a creeper’s awkward growth.

At this juncture, the final secretive glades appear, although almost totally obscured. The exclusive domain of endangered turtles, and of the desperate criminals who catch them, surrounded on all sides by deep mud and slipsure rocks, rotting overhead branches and listless yellowing leaves, these are the primitive holdouts of punishing mosquitoes and subtle leeches. The place is at once hostile and intriguing: none come here for pleasure alone. Pandanas thorns scour unguarded skin and giant orbweb spiders aspire to leave their strong sticky yellow threads upon the hair. Yet there is a purity and a delight in ultimate seclusion.

There is no path ahead. Where pig or cow may have once lazily made their way all night above the boulders and through the canopy, the track for human feet, if there ever was one, has forever vanished within the thick subtropical vegetation, the primordial, the emotionless and the moral-free. Beyond this terminal place it would be easy to set down forever, and leave no trace for the world further down that lifeline track. Once free of vitality, the body would become the food of a boar, of rodents, flocks of pecking birds, thousands of ants and a billion microbes.

But back the seeker must go, reminded with each step about what it means to be a solitary soul within society. Such isolation is to be treasured because of the necessary intensity of social interaction. Quiet places, even secret places, are treasuries of autonomous experience. We bring ourselves there to find peace and hope to take a little of it home.

Instinctual Sunrise

From the curve of the earth, the ocean births the star afresh, the sizzling light pushed out on arms unfathomable. Unseen to all, the new radiant waves scouring the sky cause a daily migration in readiness for the long day beneath the ocean's current-swell: the lightphobe dwellers start to sink and their counterparts begin the rise. It is the pattern of things.

I stand at the helipad. It is 6:41. The scene unfurling before me is magnificent. I take it in as best I can – a rich drink more than my body can absorb. Before me is the narrow stretch of seawater between mountains called Long Harbour, within which I swim from time to time. Beyond that is Sharp Peak, the dramatic mountain silhouette that momentarily cradles then sun. On either side there is the ever-living, ever-thriving world inhabiting the forested hills of subtropical southern China, and there is also the still and dead – the hidden graves of ancestors gradually subsumed under the ever-falling detritus from those thriving trees. Behind me is the Hoi Ha Road, the narrow ribbon of tarmac that leads over the hill, and beyond that the camp ground and barbecue pits more often deserted than occupied. I am nestled in time and place: the hills and waters, sky and soil, living and dead, past and future.

Across the water comes a kaido, a noisy little boat ferrying people to Wong Shek pier for one of the early buses into town. Its wake is a broad V that breaks lazily upon the whelk-encrusted rocks of the shoreline. Around are the birds, announcing territory, flitting about their bird business. The cicadas and crickets, their grating songs filling the ear, sit and endlessly transmit. On the mud by my feet are the footprints of wild boar that have passed in the night, in the harsh meadow grass sits a pat from the bull that rested here until dawn, and all around a host of hurrying ants pick seeds from the yellow sand. High above on the new day's thermals are black kites, circling for movement, their eyes catching my form.

For I am here, too. I have become a part of this world – my sensual input taking me deeper inside. My feet touch the soil, my lungs breath the air, my water is from the stream. I have eaten fruit from the trees and mushrooms from the trails. I have cut bamboo for a roof shelter and used wood for winter fire. I have watched deer and porcupine pass by my window, thrown snakes out the door and accepted that mosquitos and thorns will taken my blood.

But that is all in the past. In the here and now I live in a street in a small city in central Europe. I have had my time in the sun, and as it rises so I fall, back into the shadowy depths.

Jewels In The Forest

三寶

I Take Refuge in the Buddha

I Take Refuge in the Dhamma

I Take Refuge in the Sangha

The Three Jewels are both metaphorical and literal: they are an appropriate metaphor for an approach to something precious that cannot be seen or sensed, and they are also literal in that they represent a cherished set of life experiences encountered by millions of people that often call themselves Buddhist. In this short essay I will attempt to concentrate on the former metaphorical interpretation because I believe the Jewels in the Forest of the country park can be seen in a similar vein. However, before so doing I must firstly draw attention to the literal.

As a thoughtful visitor walking through the Sai Kung Country Park it may be difficult to identify any certain specialness with regard to the place that cannot be sensed directly through pretty views or luscious smells, etc. And as a species we regularly identify specialness through the use of sensory language, i.e. we are sometimes moved to express poetry about the ‘sense’ or ‘feel’ of a place. I am no stranger to the ‘feelings’ aroused by living in the Country Park itself, but as a species we are generally sensory-driven and have simply grown to understand and readily use this sort of language as our understanding, and to even sometimes use it quite well.

However, I believe the experience of the Jewel of the place of the Sai Kung Country Park goes beyond the physical or sensually-identified. I will explain what I mean by this later.

The literal sense of place in the Country Park is obvious to see:

• The hills are beautiful at any time of year; the foliage and flora are to be adored in their intricacy and simplicity, the many fauna a constant source of visual wonder and curiosity,
• The multitude of birds are at their most obvious in the morning in terms of that which can heard, just before any human traffic dominates,
• As one approaches the park the air changes its fragrance from the polluted city to that of bouquets, deep resins and moulds – any visitor encountering wild cows or pigs on their path will no doubt be aware of the intense smells such animals can exude,
• As far as taste and touch are concerned, most Hong Kongers are cautious about what is picked up with their hands, but the soil is really very good and some leaves have the texture of the richest velvet. Although I am sure I should not recommend the stream water for drinking, I nevertheless find it sweet and pure.

It is easy to present a picture that conveys the Park’s obvious beauty. However, the language describing the ‘sense’ of place in the Country Park –however good that language may be– does not, I believe, truly convey what is present in this wild and relatively remote locale in Hong Kong.

I think the ancients had a fairly good grasp of this concept because they were thoroughly immersed in the natural world: they worked with it in their everyday lives, were inspired to be creative in reflection of it growing and rotting around them, were fed by it and, indeed, often lived or died because of it. It was a source of richness and disaster, feast and famine, devotion and fear. For them, identifying a ‘sense’ of place went, therefore, far beyond merely observing (much as we might do with our cameras on an afternoon’s hike around Wong Shek). It is with much sadness that the last and very elderly generation with a direct connection with this concept passes from the Country Park. They will, of course, remain in concert with their surroundings in the strategically placed tombs on the hills: They lived it and they will remain part of it.

For those that are left, I think it is still possible to identify the hidden Jewel of the Forest: It is in that which is as much seen as unseen. The strong trees and vibrant flowers, the streams of clear water, the granite boulders and crumbling earth, the silent butterflies and rambling porcupines are also clearly the residents of this domain, and they are easy to celebrate. But one can better get a sense of what else is here only through the passing of time. I would argue that to understand this place one has to ‘live it’ – perhaps the most common way to identify with any place.

As mentioned, the last generation is nearly gone. And when they are finally extinct they will take with them the intimate knowledge of the herbs and cures, the secret paths of the animals, the laborious efforts incumbent with the old rice fields high up in the valleys which once fed them year on year and which are now nearly enveloped back into the leafy hillsides, or in the identification of valleys through which water flowed longest through the year. Their old distinctiveness was complete, yet also tested. Each year tearful sons and daughters left to settle elsewhere because rural lives were often too tough and the human presence had to be balanced with what could be provided by their environment. Others’ ambitions outstretched the closed beauty of the valleys, beaches and bays.

What is left by the human residents from those many years ago looks old – if it can be seen at all. Some villages remain alive and thrive, albeit with novelty foreign residents and may become dormitories for those working in the city. Those villages without roads but with access to the sea teeter towards oblivion. Other places are gone altogether and forever, their access difficult, their names on a map their only voice.

And this, perhaps, is the substance of the matter, where the literal becomes subsumed by the metaphor: as a voice. Long after people have gone and their absence is no longer noticed and their impact subsumed, their voice remains – one that was once sung but is quiet and active only in spirit. Perhaps the people joined with the continuing song of the land in which they lived, and perhaps they strove against it, but the voices still echo across the trees and in the sandy soil. These voices change with the seasons, as they do with the weather and the activity of those who now live under the region’s protection. This subtle song is rhythmic and powerful, imminent and sudden, silent and calm, repetitive and irritating, constant and beguiling. The song is the experience of man and animal, tree and bird, fish and insect, of sky and land. Together they are the jewels of understanding that mean all are united for better or worse. Each element is a beautiful jewel that makes up a magnificent whole living thing beyond comprehension and within which we can live in harmony.

So to conclude, although there are many beautiful things to be sensed in the Country Park, the Jewels in the Forest are largely instinctual and must be understood metaphorically. They are like voices individually spoken that together make up a beautiful jewelled song. Live long enough within it and you may also take refuge.

Squally Assurances

                                        Raindrops compete for proximity

                                        Within the dewy confines of the shirt

                                        Altogether drip-trip double, the neck runs

                                        Pounded from above the lime tree-lined pathway

                                        The park’s sodden grassland gives way to quickmarsh

                                        Each milk coffee puddle churns to a bubble-popped sea

 

                                        In deeply thunderous rolls, away on the field-tops

                                        Jumping tears sound upon the river’s smoothness raised

                                        Down from heaven the tiller’s shift drops your storm

                                        This way now; be wet, and in the wetter shivers realise

                                        That Olympus hears all, but answers few, less so with favour

 

                                        They all pass, they move on, and they dry

                                        Grasses in green, thick oak velvet,

                                        As needful for it from drop-tipped fronds

                                        To the clutched grip-sure roots,

                                        These squally assurances allow the nameless and the named

                                        The power of a tomorrow, in rains today

Cloud Forms

Out of the mind, a cloud forms—

They didn’t have a particularly close relationship, sharing a bed like sharing the shopping. In her mind he was a casual friend who she happened to live with because it was convenient. He considered her a regular girlfriend, unless he was out at the weekends alone.

They often privately wondered about all of this, but between them nothing much was spoken. The lack of precious lovey-doveyness gave them each a freedom from over-attachment, a robust approach that allowed for late-night work appointments, guiltless travel and any number of things that a proper couple would have to first negotiate and then navigate.

Their flat, a nice little upper floor flat with sea views, was comfortable without being pretentious. Their shared furniture (his sofa, her mattress, their table, etc) was modest; most of their money was given over to interests, both separate and mutual. She enjoyed spas and weekend breaks with her girlfriends, he took his mountains seriously and was in the middle of systematically bagging every Munro—that is, every mountain in Scotland over 3000 ft.

She was happy enough when he left, and every time enjoyed seeing him return, bedraggled and steaming, sometimes fit and ruddy-cheeked. It was at that moment they enjoyed the best sex.

He similarly anticipated her homecoming from any number of spas across south-eastern Scotland, or maybe further afield. She’d laugh, holding out her new fingernails, a mane of soft hair exuding the most gorgeous scents imaginable.

To many they seemed like the most contented couple, but others knew the more sparing truth. Smiles in photos and arriving and leaving together from a party, mean different things to different people. But they were not planners, at least not of the long-term variety. They even holidayed separately, she returning year after year to St Lucia to be steeped in beachside luxury, him in recent years taking in many of the peaks of Switzerland, Bavaria, Norway and Italy. It wasn’t that they wanted to be apart, but were mature enough to realise that their respective interests meant vacationing together would be a disaster.

On those weekends as much those longer breaks they would both find others. It was not that they sought them out, so much as they allowed things to happen. He’d find a similarly minded female climber at the bar of the loch-side inn that was his accommodation that night, she’d be surprised by a handsome masseur taking his time with her body and would suitably rise to his hands.

And so, during the week, they slept together, usually without sex or anything other than the bare bones of intimacy. They went to work and did what they had to do without guilt, prejudice or jealousy. It appeared they had all they wanted, at least temporarily. And indeed they had, until one summer Monday morning she was sick. She leapt out of bed straight for the toilet. It was an impulsive retching from the pit of her stomach. He came over and did the polite waiting at the door thing while she dabbed at the side of her mouth and blew her nose.

“I’ll make a cup of tea.” he said, and headed for the kitchen already lit with the healthy rays of the July sun.

They sat giving thought to her horrible vomiting, but put it down to the evening’s pub food where she’d had the fish.

Their tea consumed, they busied for work and the customary departure time of 7:55.

Their evening was spent before the TV, but she was asleep by 9 and he watched something about badgers. The next morning, the same thing happened, and their minds turned serious.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” he suggested over the old 1930s kitchen table.

“I can’t be!” she returned, somewhat dismissively, “I’ve been on the pill for three years.”

“Nevertheless, hadn’t you better check?”

She added sugar from the cupboard, to try to remove the acidic sourness from the top of her tongue. On her way back from work she stopped off at the chemists beside the bus stop. Before he got home she did the test. It was positive.

She didn’t understand. How could this be? Surely the doctor had prescribed the right pill. She sat on the lid of the toilet staring at the plastic indicator before her. They didn’t want this; that was for sure. They were moderately happy, not unrealistically ecstatic, but just enough to make each year together as pleasant as pleasant could be. And now this would change. He’d react badly, run off, leaving her to deal with this on her own. Maybe not. She’d never made demands, but bringing up a baby was a job for a couple. If he did stay around, and they had a baby, it would be costly. They’d have to move up to get a bigger place. He’d have to earn more because she’d be expected to take time off. And the biggest question of all; would it change their relationship? She’d seen how unhappy her parents had been for most of their lives, chained to each other out of convention and good manners and promised only to enter a relationship with someone based on amicability alone. And she’d had it, until now.

He knew, somehow. The long uphill ride home on the bike told him that things had better change now. Perhaps they should get married. Perhaps he should seek a promotion, or they should move away—to London, perhaps, or even abroad. He’d thought of parenthood only in vague future terms, perhaps even with another person, where everything felt right and where the obvious passion of a new love would seek a means to bear fruit. For one ghastly moment he considered both their parents, each couple staid and steady, rock solid in kirk and standing, seeking harmony and respectability at all costs. There was no way they could live like them, even for the sake of a baby. No, they had to do it right, whatever the costs.

She heard his key in the door downstairs and was about to call out his name, but felt her tongue shrivel in her mouth. The most she could come up with was a quiet, dry ‘huhg’ that sounded more like a plea for help. He brought the bike upstairs and left it on the landing by the front door. He sat down next to her, the rivulets of sweat and roadway dirt patterning his sunburned crow’s feet. She held out the test for him to see.

“So.” he replied, as if that was all required. They stared for one moment in each other’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if she’d been crying.

“So,” she echoed, before taking a deep breath, “it’s positive.”

He nodded. “And what…?”

“What do we do? I’ve been thinking about that all day.” She paused, tapping the table with her beautiful fingernails. “I don’t know.”

He nodded again and stared at the view out of the window. “I mean…”

His words dried up. They were useless and artificial, an interesting juxtaposition considering his recent handiwork. And then he had a thought.

“Is it mine?” He instantly regretted saying it.

She looked at him, at first a little taken aback, but recovered. “Yes, yes. It is. You’re all right.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that.

“So, what do we do, then?” He removed his bag and cycling shoes and getting his solving head on.

She shrugged the shrug of someone who has yet to get all the facts. “What do you want to do?” She admitted to herself her laziness.

“The way I look at it, we have three options: keep it, give it up or abortion.”

She didn’t like the sound of any of them, especially the last one, but nodded the long nod of the ponderer. He got up and made tea, but this problem was not going to go away in the next five minutes. Whichever way they went, she questioned whether this something they could survive?

“And what about us?” Her words stopped him dead. He had thought the very same. The pressure of a baby, not just of nappies and changing, but also of school, growing up and 18 years commitment; it just wasn’t something they’d ever considered as an option. And yet here it was, ready-made.

Those were the last words they spoke together for the next half hour. The man in the flat downstairs came up to discuss the leak and there was a phone call from the Manhattan branch which he had to take, by which point she had opened the balcony doors to sit with another cup of tea. He came over.

“Hey!” She acknowledged him with a pained glance. He stood arms folded, leaning on the doorjamb.

“Sorry.” He tilted his head.

“But it’s not your fault.”

“No, I mean about the call.”

She shook her head.

“That too. But we’re are both at fault. No smoke, and all that…”

She smiled, but inside she was a little numbed. “Have you thought?”

“I have. Do you want to do this?”

She was thinking the same thing. “Nobody knows yet.”

He barely nodded. “And we could carry on, as before.”

“It’s not like we’re in a relationship with it, or anything.”

“No, I mean it’s not even a baby yet.”

She froze. He’d used the word. For a baby, a real live baby, is to be protected, to be nurtured and provided for—it’s unconditional. There was an instant upwelling of bitterness and self-loathing. Could she do this? How could he even think this? And yet, how could they not?

That night they slept poorly. It was hot and they floated naked under the sheet on the coals of their combined turbulent unconsciousness. In the morning, she rushed to the toilet just in time. She did not want to be sick, but could not help it. This time he patted her on the back. She shrugged him off.

Perhaps they should have a baby, he thought all that day. After all, people have to change, and the change of a baby is a positive one. He thought of taking a young boy up the hills, spotting deer in the bracken, camping beside streams, of picnics in the park. The undeniable pleasures of parenthood wafted in on untested clouds to deposit their pleasant rains on untested ground.

She called in sick and in-between sleeps spent the day online checking out websites for local clinics, for planned pregnancy centres, Marie Stopes, even for local hospitals.

That evening as they ate spaghetti they went through their options with very serious intent. It was not easy: as soon as one thought positively, the other reacted negatively.

She had set a target of three days to make up their minds, before the week was out, Friday night beckoned and their expected attendance at a friend’s eldest’s First Communion. She could not work, they could not sleep, and their time together became dominated by this sole discussion. They were sick of it. In bed she told him that she’d made an appointment at the clinic.

“Are you sure?” his came back had a ring of uncertainty.

“No. But we have to do something.”

He desperately wanted more time, the one thing they really didn’t have. And even if they went ahead with it in principle, would they be able to carry it out at the end? Could they walk into a building to do this thing?

He held her hand, supporting her decision whatever it was. She gripped him, then squeezed him, then began to sob, to grieve and to howl. Right then she knew; she wanted him more than anything else and would do anything for him.

Streetlamps and Wave-tips

                                In the header a bastard burning streetlamp, a toxygene

                                Splendidly caparisoned and in splendid isolation—how fond are we in our isolation—

                                Accommodating insulting siren blasts, wakeful or taking forty winks

 

                                Footnoted on the foamy bow’s wave-tipped tactic, a shuffle

                                Resuming a vocation on a godawful prospect—how fond are we of prospecting—

                                In quotidian dedication off we trot or drag, it doesn’t matter

 

                                So scream, rampage and burn the streets

                                Tomorrow does not come around every day