Snowdrops in Spring,

Epic.

  Snapshots of a Man’s Life.

No one was there, when the spotlight of life, first shone on his head peeping through the porthole, of the passenger ship he had bedded down in.

His Mother was there, when collared dove, he raised his face upwards to the almighty light of deity, and sang like a bird soaring skywards.

His Dad was there, in the cellar of his young life, to tend the bruises, ruffle his hair, underpin his foundations, bolster his breeches, and help him to become a man.

He was there, when he first took to the skies in a career, where privates would cower and slink away, from the bark that was worse than his bite.

A whole village was there, to witness the rite of passage, that with the exchanging of rings, brings responsibility …

And so was I, underneath the veil, of a blushing bride that was not me.

He wasn’t there one morn in January, when a violet eyed babe, arm braked against the passage of life, refused to make her first entrance stage right.

Yet, from that moment on he was always there, playing peek-a-boo through the window,singing songs in the key of life,cracking egg-cellent odious jokes, telling stories to starry eyed monsters at his knees. His laughter, always the most popular tune in our ears.

Oh yes, he was always there building blocks, that add up to cement the foundations of another life.

And I was there when the shutter closed as Lyneham flew, the beautiful bird onto his shoulder, never to leave his side, always to come home to roost, to feather a nest filled with joyous rapture.

And, in that photo capture, the words lay unwritten, that I would love her too.

He was there when the phone rang that late autumn night, bringing news that new seeds had taken root. His tears washed the clay from his Achilles heel, rendering my god human.

Oh yes… He was always there with ‘7356’, as grandchildren burst forth on the screen, and kept the reels of an epic turning.

I was there, in the early autumn film of his life.

With ‘Hello, how are you?’ coming down the line, bringing news of an apple in his image, fortuitously fallen,from her branches into his lap.

And he cried as a new born babe, his happy tears baptizing his Sunshine Son.

He was always there, silently sailing through stormy seas, muffling the ears from the effects of thunder, docking into ports through time and space, opening treasure chests full of plunder, a roguish pirate amidst the human race.

Suddenly, I know not when, the winds changed direction. The leaves fell unseen by all, harvesting him towards winter.

And like Hilary, he began an epic climb, plotting tracks of Mercury whilst drifts of snow mantled the mountain pinnacle.

And all of us were there,watching, some sat loving in the back seat of this life.

Others, holding hands tight, resisting the letting go, full to capacity in a love affair, spent seventy years in production.

Photo courtesy of F.Sheilds.

No-one was there, as he lay on his side in the snow drops of spring.

The screen transformed from flickering eyes, into sudden, gentle sighs. And under a blanket he slumbered down, still watching, yet, dreaming into what would be, another reel rolling, on the face of his humanity.

For my Father.

 05.03.1938 – 03.02.2011.

One year on. Love Talia.  ♥

Acknowledgements and attribution under creative commons licence F.Sheilds.

Until You Return.

Until you Return.

(When Love Flies Away)

This morning.

A dull ache in the back,

an imprint of you spooning,

no longer there.

In the mirror.

Your face, misted over by droplets,

a reminder of intimate moments,

shared by two.

At the breakfast table.

Two plates, two spoons, two cups,

one folded broadsheet—a copy of The Times,

shadowed by sugar untouched.

When evening falls.

A flame flickers in the window,

softening the face that knows,

you are out there, somewhere,

occluded by an oceans distance,

under this soothing moon.

And like a moth she is drawn,

to a blinking tail light,

that trails a message across the sky…

Home. Home. Home. Home.

To you soon,

he will be home.

Copyright © Talia Hardy 2012.

For lovers everywhere, young or old.

 Sometimes, it is not about time and distance. It’s about making the journey.

Closing the Divide

On a darkened dock, it is time to demob, time to go back to his native land.

At six foot-two, he stands, at arm’s length, in his American G.I dress suit, his bow tie at a slant caused by the jitter-bugging in the mess hall. And one by one, stars pierce the twilight water-coloured sky.

He had never said it, although she wished he had. He had not asked, although she hoped he would.

‘I guess this is goodbye Brian,’ she says slow and stilted, stretching out her hand.

She feels him press something round and warm into her net-gloved palm.

‘I know it aint gonna fit, but we sure as hell do.’ he says, his body shaking slightly.

She looks down at the brass curtain ring and her eyes pool with emotion.

And he, stepping forward, breathing hard, crushing her into his three-star pipped chest, lifts her from blue satin stiletto shoes,  and murmurs, ‘Iris, I will never let you go.’

The Story behind a Pair of Vintage Shoes.

For Christie. Brodheadsville, Pennsylvania.

 Copyright ©Talia Hardy 2012.

Running to Seed.

 

 He had finished his work, the wallpapering over the cracks complete and the damage was done. She now knew who and what he really was and that, very probably, she was just another casualty on his long road of places to lay his head.  Standing on her front step she watched, as the car wheels propelled him into the future, his arm from the window stretching backwards, giving her the impression he wouldn’t be back.

For days, that became weeks, that rolled into months, her bed became a place of loathing, her sleep patterns alternating between thirty minutes or a few hours pierced with pictures of him, and always awakening to the of wanting him, the needing to hear his voice, if only to explain why he had taken the route he had.

In early spring, Donna arrived on her doorstep, clutching a gift bag and card.

‘Hey you, happy birthday,’ she said pressing her large bosom into Tash’s sternum, ‘but, tell me why it is the birthday girl is still in her nightie at four o’clock in the afternoon. You should be up, lippy on and ready to rumble.’

Tash, passing through to the lounge, caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror. Her chestnut hair hung lank, her eyes eclipsed by dark moons.

‘Just because.’ she muttered. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Donna looked into the kitchen, the sink submerged under copious cups.

‘You know what I think you need Tash?’

‘What?’

‘You need to get yourself out there again, put your wares back on the market. You’ll be fighting them off.’

‘No, Donna. Don’t you see that’s exactly what I don’t need, another bloody predator.’

‘They’re not all like that, look at me. The guy can’t get enough of me, always attentive. If I want a pair of shoes, he buys them for me. Plus, he’s an artist too.’

Donna stopped short of her pep talk, when she noticed the mist in her friend’s eyes seeping over her lower lashes.

‘Look, come for supper. It is your birthday after all. Your life has to start again somewhere.’

‘Well okay, give me an hour to apply the spit and polish.’ said Tash, her bare feet slapping over the over the porcelain tiles in the shower.

***

The tyres crunched over the gravel in Donna’s driveway, mowing down weeds that had begun to emerge after the winter thaw.

‘Oh, he must have slipped out.’ she said noting that her Volkswagen coupe was absent from the garage. Tash’s throat tightened when she saw a well-worn green corduroy jacket hanging on the hall stand.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute. I’m just going to kick off my shoes. Crack open a bottle of pink fizz if you want.’ Donna said hobbling into her dressing room.

She emerged, her face white, her hands travelling hard across her heavy hips.

‘What is it Donna?’

‘He’s gone. None of his clothes are in the closet. Hell, he’s even taken the silver photo frame he gave me for Christmas.’

‘Have you tried ringing him?’

‘Yes, and it goes straight to answer phone.’

Tash flipped back the flap of her tote bag and handed Donna a tissue. From under her lashes she looked again at the jacket and when she was certain of what she needed to do next, with her heart banging against her breastbone, took out her mobile and called the Emergency Services.

 Copyright © Talia Hardy 20.01.2010

 

Four Days Late.

Four Days Late.

This day came no customary call, four days late.

For as long as I could remember, sometime towards mid-afternoon, I, lost in the process of my own life, would stop, surprised that the landline was ringing. Then I’d be subtly reminded when I picked up the handset and spoke, just how much you loved my sister too.

Often, I’d try to explain to her that even though he had called me, it was her he was thinking of. In response, the shrew, who could never be tamed, would claw apart the well-meant intentions, denouncing them as nothing more than worthless.

‘But don’t you see, the fact it was your birthday he phoned on, meant that his muddled mind could still do the math, that he had two daughters, not one.’

‘Nope. No. It was you he had the relationship with. He never bothered with me.’

The image of her many carrier bags, filled with the junk of her young life, hanging from door handles, hiding in copious corners, dumped under the table he crafted himself, or  halfway up the un-bannistered stairs, that reverberated with her stilettos stomping up to bed when the rest of the world was rising, told me different. I believe, until the skip finally comes to cart away the veiled secrets in the attic, they are still there, skulking.  

Last year after you left and before she finally made it to your door, when I told her of your priceless collections, the screaming was worse.

‘It holds no value to me. He was never there. He just didn’t care.’

But, I knew that behind the bluff and bluster, how somewhere in the dark recesses of his fractured mind, the contents of a shuttered room, complete with unfinished projects, had made the message clear. 

This year, I, sick in heart and lung slept the day away. Apart from a spambot selling fraud protection, the telephone stayed silent.  Knowing the call, for both of us, would never come, I reached into the cloud, hoping to hear your voice once  more, a compensation for four days late that would be forever.

Of course, I could not reach you. You were not there. Technology cares not for the needs of the human condition. Unlike; attics, carrier bags and the muddled mind, finally letting go with a call, four days late, with ‘This is goodbye.’

And, I guess Dad, there is no protection against emotions that make frauds of us all. 

Copyright © Talia Hardy. 10.01.2012.

This New Year

Another Year.

A ticking clock,

The pendulum swings

side to side.

A pointer to the past,

a pointer to the future.

Slowly she creeps in,

this new year.

Her tempo, the pace

of the grandmother’s heart.

Silent, steady, ready to shed

the skin of wishing,waiting, wanting ,

watching the pendulum swishing,

her hands pushing out the past,

and reaching for the future.

 And when the final bell chimes,

she clothes in her case

those who have closed the door.

I love. 

 

I love.

I love,

untill

 I am

 still.

 

 Copyright. Talia Hardy. 30.12.2011.

The Trap

In you, there is a place to rest.

Where, repose is found in well-worn bulk,

warmed by coals alight with succoured glow.

Your fibrous sinews clothe me,

with the coolness of cotton,

refinements of silk,

rendering a fluidity,

 that ripples in response,

 to the barbs of an underbelly of wire.

From beneath the darkened lashes,

the air is deep, a silent stillness,

a fire flashing overhead,

a mountain that cannot be conquered or claimed.

Where, eagles soar, a wolf calls,

a resonance of freedom maimed.

Like a font you flow through my veins,

ruby red, intoxicating,

bitter sweetness – life sustaining

set adrift in a loss of reason,

for this symbiotic companionship.

And what of it, in this house of cards?

In this botanical garden filled with fragile blooms,

that fragrance the games we play.

It’s a dog to be walked,

a rabbit to be trapped,

another notch on the bedpost to be chalked.

It’s a hunk of crusty bread,

 a taste of ambrosia divine,

a feast of nipples as olives

and fig leaves stuffed with savoury meat.

Then the door slams,

 the cards tumble and fall.

 It’s another ace in the hole,

until again, you answer my call.

And we two, caught in this trap, so full of bluff and bluster,

tapping more strength than a woman should have to muster.

We speak not of what will be,

but sit back to back under the winter willow tree.

Old, cold, yet warmed in each other’s company.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Talia Hardy. August 2011. All rights reserved.

Dedicated to K.A.H.

 

The Eyes of a Woman.

She sat in a room she had known for twenty years of her life, with her little brother on her left hand-side and her Father on her right. In the bay window, a wooden cot nestled against the low wall. Inside, lay an eight month old baby belly down; head erect, peering through the bars. Her eyes rested briefly upon his face. It crumpled like tissue and his little mouth uttered an odd cry.

‘Don’t cry little one, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to frighten you’, she said in a soft voice.

‘Just ignore him; he’s doing his best to wind me up.’

‘But Dad, I think he needs something.’

She turned to speak to her three-year-old brother and a cry came again from the cot.

‘What’s the matter mate. Do you want a flying lesson?’ Her Father said.

He rose from the bed, approached the cot and gripped the back of the baby’s butter coloured body suit. He lifted him and her brother’s arms spread like a canary in flight.

‘Dad!’

 Her arms reached out towards her baby brother.

‘Here, you take him. I have had enough of his antics.’

Her arms encircled the soft bundle placed upon her lap and her dark hair ran in rivulets across the blonde down of his. The soft smell from the crown of his head made her aware that this was not her child. He squirmed slightly in her lap, and raised his face, his bluebell eyes looked into the dark brown depths of hers.

‘It is okay, I am your sister. I won’t hurt you’.

She sat on the edge of the bed, with him safe in her arms, swaying slightly. She felt the bulk of his little body succumb to her soothing. He lay limp, his breath almost inaudible and his whisper coloured lashes closed like sashes over his eyes. She turned her head to face her other little brother and smiled. When she was sure that the child in her arms was asleep, she stood up and slowly walked to the cot. Gently, she lay him down upon the mattress, lifted the bunny embellished blanket and covered him.

Twenty five years later, she stood at the doorway of that same bedroom. For a moment, she thought she saw her father standing silhouetted against the bay window.

‘Wow! You look so handsome Paul. You certainly have our Father’s dress sense. In fact, you are the same build and height as him.’

‘Yes, I am also wearing his ex-service tie.’

Paul’s arms reached out to her, his eyes wet with emotion. She crossed the floor. In embracing him, the expanse of his body drowning the diminutiveness of her own, she became aware that not only was he her brother, he was now a young man.

The door clunked shut behind her in the family funeral car. Her eyes fixed on the simple yellow rose bouquet in the black limousine ahead of them and watched as it slowly pulled away from the curb. It turned right, out onto Church Hill Road, past the flat where their Father and his wife had begun their life together. At a respectful pace, it continued to carry their dad to his final destination.

 Sat beside Paul, her eyes did not leave the fluttering flowers in front of her. She felt a golden wave wash over her. She understood its message. Smiling and without looking at her brother’s face, she sought out his hand with her own. Her touch was tentative and it gently closed over his. He did not speak.

Five minutes elapsed. ‘Why did you do that?’

The dark brown depths of her ageing eyes met the blue of his. She smiled at him and in the even tempered tone that was her father’s replied;

‘I realised you needed a cuddle.’

 

For Paul, with love from Talia. 03/05/2010.

‘The eyes of a woman, see more than a man realises.’

 

The Blood Red Bed.

The Blood Red Bed.

 

  Like a lily amongst the rubble,

Still you flower, proclaiming peace and love.

To protect you from the ravens circling overhead.

That yearn to strip your soul from your sleeping bed,

 and fix your body with eternal wings,

 Tenderly, I embrace your essence in the palm of my hand.

The heartbeats, slip through my fingers like grains of sand.

 

 And you old man whose frame,

ripped apart, bent and broken,

lie beside me prostrate,

like Christ crucified on the cross,

gagged by the suffering of,

your deceased decades unspoken.

 

 Do you think that I cannot feel?

 

 Whose, unrequited love lived,

trapped in a ruby cage.

The twenty years spent,

 building castles in the sky,

cultivating toxic gardens

against the pain and rage.

 

 Do you think I cannot see?

 

Whose eyes, clouded by a stormy life,

whose tongue defers the place of a wife,

 belies the spark of light,

 that blazes against the window pane,

 and burns through need, of longing

to be whole,  and to be free from pain.

 

 I cannot undo, the ravages of time, it’s true.

But whilst you sleep, dreaming to escape,

flying aloft through the dormant moonscape.

You are wrapped like an infant,

in the blood red blanket of my being,

my man child, my embryonic plant.

 

 And…Should it be that, you land in the life you seek,

Then, pose the question why,

I drifted through your world,

like time clocks in the sky?

You may feel a resonance,

when I sing softly from afar…

 

‘Love is the only recompense, for how fragile we are.’

 

  All rights reserved. Talia Hardy. 08.01.2011

 Dedicated to K.A.H.