Navvies

From a play I wrote called 'Navvies' about some railwaymen who go on a trip to Wembley to watch Castleford RLFC (the rugby league team) in a Challenge Cup Final.  In this scene, Mick is talking on his mobile to his brother, Jack.  The conversation turns to their work on the railways.  It is entirely one-sided, I have left out Jack's side of it, so what you are reading are just the words of Mick.  

Mick went down on the special train with workmates, whereas Jack, who is more henpecked, drove with his wife and children.  The train is stuck somewhere in the East Midlands.  This should be read in the West Yorkshire vernacular (Castleford area):

NAVVIES

"Well we left 'ouse at one-thirty in' morning."

"This is proper rail tour stuff, tha know, not for faint hearted".

"Through to King's Cross.  Timings."

"Tuesday?"

"Yes, we need to lie at depot at six fifty-three, so start out at five-fifty."

"What?"

"What?"

"Well why do you sleep on train?  I have to get up at half past six."

"It's prep day, barriers on walkway."

"What do you mean?"

"No P-i-C, no Person In Charge, so you just sort of have to get hold of whoever is driving and establish a clear understanding."

"The HST is a nightmare to shunt, driver can't see, that is some more risk, because the driver can't see, has to come out".

"Well how did it happen?"

"Fuel tanks at depot, then?"

"Pure diesel."

"Listen.  Listen.  LISTEN.  You need to decide on a story and stick to it."

"Well it was an accident".

"I don't know what it was after privatisation, anyway.  All boiler shot is now pure diesel."

"They're rebuilding buffet wagon in carriage shed."

"No.  I can't sae nowt.  I'm hanging up now.  Just tell Jim that you had a signal and clear to go."

The End of the Dream

 THE END OF THE DREAM

It was midday.  A last chance to say their goodbyes to family and friends before the journey.  The five of them were in good spirits.  They had come far and now they were going further than many could ever hope or dream.  In a sense, it was an ordinary journey.  You step in, buckle up, and away you go.  But of course it could never be considered mundane.  This was a big moment for everyone, a big day, and the sun was high in the sun and the day was fun and colourful, like a jamboree, and the crowds were waiting, anticipating another success, a soaring eagle that would lift their aspirations and continue the somnolent dream of invincibility.

She told me she would see me in a few days and we kissed and waved not goodbye, but see you soon or bon voyage.  

She said: "I'm taking your dreams with me too and giving them a place in the stars, forever."

I thought that was embarrassingly corny and I'm glad they didn't ask her to make the final send-off speech before the big day.  My wife could be irrepressibly sentimental.

I took my place amongst the crowd of relatives and other well-wishers.  I heard the fun crowd cheer and revel in the prospect of Man's triumph as I waited patiently, lost in my own thoughts.  Then I watched and willed on not my wife, but a steel and titanium vessel that would convey my wife, powered by the most advanced technology known to Man, using the ingenuity my wife did not understand, but certainly believed in.

I saw the eagle soar, the sky open up for it and the heavens envelope it, then I saw the craft that carried those brave men and women explode and their remains scatter across the firmament in a million ashes.  There the dream ended.  Our dream.  My dreams.

"Kobe"

 "Kobe"

Today he was Kobe.  Kobe the Wolf.  As he was everyday.  That was his shadow.  He could not reveal it.  Not openly.  But Kobe he was: base and primal, wild Kobe.  Driven to find a mate.  Howling at the Moon.  Intrigued by the stars that he sought to bite and could not comprehend.  Kobe knew that these stars were the gods of wolves long before a single human mammal set foot on this earth.  He knew because he could remember, could think back to those times that were before time.  Kobe was beyond time, before it, after it, through it.  Time meant nothing to him.  He could remember when Germanic tribes sacked Rome and Christians burned ancient libraries.  He recalled Plato and mammoths and vast forests that covered continents and the time of the giant lizards.  His mind stretched back across eons when, even in the North, the sun was red in the sky and shone for endless days without nights. Now it was 1969 by Man's time and three men were hurtling towards Earth's Moon in a tin pot spacecraft from which they hoped to stage a landing.  This amused Kobe, for he had treaded on countless moons, waded in deep purple seas and padded through vast caves on the rocks of far-away galaxies before any man was thought of.

Michael looked back at his reflection in the glass of the coke machine and smiled.  Now he was Michael.  Michael the patient.  He was Michael everyday.  That was him, the real him.  Not Kobe.  He could be open about it, though it hurt.  Michael he was.  He could talk it through.  Michael who has so many enemies, people screaming to harm him, people who talk about him, protest his very existence, this little inadequate man called Michael.

Today she was Daphne.  Daphne, the tabby, who is friends with Percival, the British Longhair.  Daphne, as she was every day.  She could not talk about it.  Not openly.  But Daphne she was.  An empathic tabby who had never ventured beyond the walls of this institution, but had adventured in the minds of countless many across time and space in dimensions Man could not imagine.

Now she is Maggie.  Maggie she was and is.  This is how Michael knew her.  Michael admired her from afar but he was stuck in that mode because Maggie enjoyed other company, that of Percival.  Daphne liked Kobe.  He would take Daphne outside the hospital and they would venture through dark woods and forests where only Kobe knew the way.  Michael had asked Maggie if she was interested in dancing.  Did she like The Beatles?  Maggie didn't answer.  She was a staff member, a nurse, and unable to fraternise with Michael.  Michael knew that Kobe would have better luck with Daphne than he would have with Maggie.

Percival hated Michael and plotted to kill him, but offered him the deceitful balm of friendship.  Only Kobe could see the real Percival because for Kobe there was no friendship, only predators and prey, potential mates, and his own clan.

Hans Weissman

Hans Weissman

Hans had to read the letter twice.  His hand shaking.  "Mein Gott!", he cursed, then crossed himself, hoping his daughter had not heard.  The inheritance of his father's estate in Saxony had been virtually guaranteed to him, but he could not have known it would come at such an inauspicious moment.  It was winter and in the cold people were begging in the streets for bread.  Women were even offering their bodies.  Families were using notes for fuel, huddled around fires as they burned away fortunes.  Respectable people.  People like Hans.  When the crisis happened, all of the banks refused to make good on withdrawal demands and even cheques.  The Mark was valueless, worthless, yet here was Hans holding a letter from his father's attorney of Hamelin confirming that he, Hans Weissman, had inherited an estate worth two million.  It was the best moment of his life, but also the worst.

He prodded the fire again with a poker, this time in frustration, the flames spitting back through the grate, as if joining him in cursing the ill-timing of his good fortune and his father's foolishness in taking the decision all those years ago to invest his capital in government bonds, rather than something like property or precious metals that would keep its value even through the bad times like these.  Save for a tiny garden house, it was all cash.  He could murder his father now.

He looked down at the letter again.  For the first time, he noticed the high quality ivory paper and the gold-embossed copperplate header, all giving the impression of professional affluence.  He pondered how a rich lawyer had served him with news of a fortune that was a dead letter.  Some lawyer.  Some father.  Some fortune.

The Dragons of Cymru

 The Dragons of Cymru

The dragons met at the cave before dusk,

To share their plans amidst skulls and husks,

The fiery lizard who was their leader,

Shot red-eyed glances at the village, they would feed her,

The dragons would turn straw and clay to cinder,

And throw wailing mothers and children towards their maws,

Such was their plot, but the villagers were prepared,

With hot swords of iron and poisoned maces, they were not scared,

As the blood red sun fell, the dragons made aloft,

Their scaly wings flapping towards their quarry, the innocent crofts,

Through the twilight mist, the Welshmen espied the dragons,

Flying towards them, a hellish sky wagon,

It was the youngest boy who called them to arms,

Even the ravens in the field and the wizards with their charms,

Whether by arms or magic, all stood still,

And waited for the wings of the night terrors that flew for their kill,

- Ready -

The dragons of Cymru yearning for flesh,

Man versus Dragon, a quest,

A mighty test.

More Haiku Poems

Some more haiku poems...

Lanterns

Lanterns shine through mist,
As maidens trace their path home,
In floral dresses.

A Wizard

Out of the blue night,
A wizard descends from realms,
To cast light magic.

Japan

Realm of the East,
In red sun and deep blue sea,
Yellow emperors.

Dragons

Dragons of Cymru,
In many Japanese nights,
Appear in night flight.

Ravens

Ravens in the field,
Set the rough plough, the farmer,
Then they fly to seed.

The Raven's Home

 THE RAVEN'S HOME

The Raven's teeth scratched against dry bone,

As he perched in the dark, in the chill of the night fall, wounded,

It being clear he was not of their ilk, they not among his kind,

The keeper's heart bled with softness, for the Raven, held aloft,

Then released he the proud bird from the croft, to the sun and flight,

Among his kith now, the Raven stood, cawing back across the lands,

His home.