Things We Would Do.

Dad would be digging in the vegetable garden and mum would be pegging out handwashed laundry. 

I would think of a big brown teapot on the back of the Rayburn stove. 

The tea would be well stewed. 

But it won't be emptied and refilled until I arrive. 

I  would have got an earlier bus, rushed up the hill and would be listening out for their sounds from the garden gate. 

I would not quite see them at first. 

But I would hear a spade chunking through soil and a rattle of clothes pegs. 

I would think I was clever arriving so early. 

But not as clever as they. 

For they would know me better than I do. 

Mum would have already put new teabags into the pot, kettle on and three mugs in a row. 

The kettle would just be coming up to boil, murmuring softly. 

Mum would look up from the drippy washing and smile at me.

I would hear bold whistling and clump of feet as dad would march around the corner, spade in one hand and parsnips in the other. 

Time for a cup of tea, dad would say, but not double mortgage coffee as it's more like triple now. 

I would reply that we can share mortgages, pool them together and buy coffee next time we are in town. 

We would laugh together at our you had to be there in joke. 

Mum would tell us we are crazy. 

I  would say that I get it from her. 

We would laugh together at our shared joyous madness. 

We would all laugh. 

It would be okay, not perfect but most definitely okay. 

In my heart, somewhere deeper than memories, daydreams and reality, we would always do things together.

© Berenice Dunford, June 2024

brain tumour

So

today

I met a

man who looked me

in the eye and told

me how he lived and how

he was going to die; of

the changes he was making; of

the straws that he was clutching and how

they wouldn't save him but would make

his free-falling life a little

longer. Today I met

a man whom I knew

was a little

braver than

I could

be.

© Berenice Dunford
14th December 2018

Life, blood, and coffee rings.

I see it in the eyes of the poet;
not the well-written and famous one
I bought him off the shelves last week,
but him over there, flicking
ash on the floor and blowing
smoke across my vision.

For a while I stare, first coyly,
then with shameful directness.
Hell, why not. He is watching me.

We share something, this frayed
chain smoker and I. Not his cigarettes.
I get the feeling he wouldn't part with those.
But something as fragile as
the glass in my hand. A necessity
to squeeze, tighter and tighter,
to see how long it can go on,
before it shatters, bloodying our skin.

We share an understanding.
The need to squeeze our lives,
tighter and tighter, to see
how long they can go on,
before they shatter and
blood spills out onto paper.

Life, blood, and coffee rings.
I see what he sees. He nods,
small but perceptible. I lift one eyebrow
in acknowledgement and look down
to write my poem, our poem.

When next I look up, he too scribbles.


© Berenice Dunford
16th July 2004

When I am quiet

When I am quiet,
face turned away,
away to some past place,
seen only by I,
when you cannot see my soul
for the glaze in my eye,
do not disturb me,

for I am wandering,
lost in miles of green acreage,
drowning in rivers too deep,
deeper than all the forevers
discussed throughout childhood.
I am searching,
seeking the one thing
that I have not.
What is it?

It is in strong tea brewed
at four fifteen in the morning.

It is in the smell of hand rolled
cigarette smoke, drifting
through early evening rooms
as I lay, not quite asleep in my bed.

It is in lunch at twelve, eaten
with Jimmy Young on the radio
and traces of bitter marmite
upon the butter knife,

and tea at six, punctuated
by world news and comedy.

It is in the past,
God rest it's soul.

So when, not if, I look lost,
please do not disturb,
for I am lost,
and I am weeping
and wiping marmite stains
from the tracks upon my cheeks.

© Berenice Dunford
14th April 2004

Our Timepiece.

late August in Rhos harbour

on wing 

on water 

by sunken jetty 

as last crabs are fished 

boats align 

with a rising tide

birds feed

then flee before 

autumn becomes

palpable

Berenice Dunford 

August 28th 2017 

tHE cURSE oF tHE kEYBOARD...aaaaRGhhh!!

I was a Pitman's trainee,
lovingly fingering each key
sellotaped paper draped over
as a cloak to my wandering eyes.
In a room full of clackety-clack,
I discovered the alphabet was not A to Zee,
but something called Qwerty.

I should have known then what was to come,
the hideous humor of finger to thumb.
When typewriters were all but defunct, cast out with a final clackety-clunk,
I turned to the computer keyboard,
spying my old faithful friend
alphas Q though to M. 

I can do this... 

Yeah, easy as abc....

But what is the point of a capital lock wedged so close to the A??
wHEN ALL IT DOES
IS CATCH ME UNAWARE
AND THAT DRATTED GREEN LIGHT
GIVES A MALEVOLENT glare!!

Ahhh....

That's better....

who invented the shift key
9that won't shift0
causing my equilibrium to drift?
the most important letter
in the whole alphabet
is diminished to a humble i. 

I....

 Phew....

So what's this spell check thingy?
Never had that on my typewriter's key.
A great gimmick yes,
but you'd never guess, when offering it "to, two and too".
In my humble opinion, this lingo of English
overdoes things a bit,
with its silent letters piping up,
and two where one would do.

So, to make things easy, I decree;
From henceforth on...

each leter should only have one t.

© Berenice Dunford May 2005

Post Office.

The day after bank holiday.
Queue out into street.
Silent impatience.
Cashier hard sell.
Seriously??

If robber wished to rob
he'd have to wait in line.

Berenice Dunford
© September 2015

A Minute's Silence.

Deserted car parks.
Silent.
Blowy.
Crowd upon crowd.
Grief upon grief.
September sun shine on us.
Bell toll.
Dongle upon dong.

All over this land.
All over this world.
Humankind freezes into a minute of ttime.
Stood still.
Stood silent.
A tragic game of statues.

No birds.
No cars.
No planes.

In an airport terminus a piper shrill his lament.
This minute is over forever.

© Berenice Dunford.

Written after watching the funeral of Princess Diana in 1997.

Published in the National Poetry Anthology, 2001.

Silence is not lonely. (for Rob)

I sit and read and ponder;
in the firelight where
my dead still wear slippers
warmed by their feet,
where tears of grief have
not lately run tracks across
the floor, where silence
is not lonely. It is segmented
into manageable sections;
each marked by clock-ticks,
cat-purrs, coal-crackles,
page-turns, wind-gusts,
chair-creaks, petal-falls,
and stomach-rumbles
at the thought that
it will soon be time for tea.

In my firelight, though he
may not be alive, he shoves
his feet deeper into his
slippers, stretches and stands
up. Do you want toast with
your tea? I do. Brown and
buttered. The clock chimes,
my cat yowls in dreamland, a
coal drops, I let my book slip
to the floor, a chair spring pings
as I rise, the wind whistles
a tune to which the whole vase
of flowers flickers in a waltz of
joy and my stomach audibly
growls the closing chords.
All is well. I have buttered
brown toast and my dad.

© Berenice Dunford 2008

Boy with a bluish light.

They have taken marzipan, moulded it,
told you a lie, that it was your brain.
But I know better. I know you.
I have looked into your eyes,
seen sad things. Now that is enough
to make me beat my heart with misery.

You are one step aside from convention.
And if I, in jest, use words such as 'daft' or 'crazy',
immediately I wince with remorse as your voice rises
and distress bells clang. How could I be so thoughtless?
I should have known, having been in such pain as you.

Now you face me, shrouded in a bluish light. Returning
from alcohol and your mother’s painkillers, nannied
by kind, well intentioned friends and relatives. You
stare for a moment over their heads, knowing that I know.

help me

Your voice breaks up the air around us.

© Berenice Dunford 2005/6

Poet/non poet.

If I never wrote another word, would
you reclassify me as ordinary, blur
my face into the crowd? She's
no longer being a little weird. In
fact I hardly notice her at all. Perhaps

I will trace dust runes instead, plans
optimistic of any form of future, on
ledges of emporium windows, long
since derelict and boarded over, as
unremembered as my poems. All

of this trembling uncertainty, vibrations
from my manic life, must settle soon, into
a familiar rhyme and rhythm. Silence
not broken but created. She
is at it again. Writing.

© Berenice Dunford 2008

Just lately...

Just lately I've heard you stirring
in an imperfect world.
Heard the clink of silver against china
and early morning cough
as you sit down to contemplate

last year's seed catalogue
and the ones you didn't plant.

Outside the wind has been blowing
leaves against the walls
of this little haven you created.
Autumn is so desperately trying
to creep in through the cracks
but you won't let it
touch a bone of your body.

Heard coals in the stove shifting
with a sigh for me and you.
Had to climb out of bed to know for sure
if that was you in there
or just some misplaced dream.

Crept through this old place
with a tiptoe of bare feet,
funny that I should want to hear you
yet keep my own presence quiet.
Are you there my daddy?
Have you reclaimed that old early morning spot?

Shall I come in and sit opposite?
Watch as you drink and read?
Wait for you to lift your head
to see me as we used to be
two early risers midst the house of sleep?

Just round the corner of the door
I hear the rustle and flick
as you light another cigarette.
Dare I look?
Can I?

© Berenice Dunford 2003

Who am I?

"traces of the places I've been,
of the folks I've seen,
of the love I've been given
and that which I gave back,
flickers of anger I have felt,
of frustration, of disbelief
and moments held up with grief,

a child of the seventies,
adolescent of the eighties,
adult of nineties,
lost in this century,
touched by the past, present and future,
questioner of all,

tomboy child running wild,
grubby knees, temper tantrums,
bullied child running scared,
not a team player, always a loner,
crashing through adolescence,
confusion, hormones and daydreams,
first love, second love, love them all.

But who am I really,
who am I now,
scarred....who isn't,
embittered...no,
alive...yes,
living...a little,

I am the human being you see before you, the name on the page, the person you wonder about in occasional absent thoughts. I am humbled by the precise moment you turn to look at me, because in your doing so I see us as if for the very first time. I am me....but most of all, you are you!"

© Berenice Dunford 2008

Morning flights.

The drunk buried beneath fumes on a shelter bench
sees escape.

An old man walking a lead, dog far away,
sees a curse.

Slumbering holidaymakers lost in dreams of hotter shores
see nothing.

This poet, dragged from too little sleep,
feet pounding towards another grinding day,
lifts an eye and a heart and sees beauty.

Lives, hundreds, maybe thousands,
fingers touching windows, trailing
pink vapours; etching loss, partings,
pain and perhaps hope behind them.

Twelve morning flights circle
and score a dawning sky.

© Berenice Dunford 2009

Rose Garden.

At eighteen, you thought you had me
crushed within your grasp.
Early spring leaf,
fragile virgin green,
translucent, unfulfilled.

At twenty one, you knew I was lost
falling from your fingertips,
still fragile,
unbroken.
I watched you sob,
held out my hand for you
and beckoned you come
before I dropped out of reach.

At forty five, we passed each other once more
in a world that was spring no longer,
gazed across our years
and remembered promises exchanged.

I wanted you then,
to taste what I had missed.
You called to me
above birdsong and wind
and bid me to come to you
before it was too late,
before autumn stripped the trees.

At forty five and one hour,
as I lay upon love stained sheets,
I heard a news vendor cry from the street below,
of how a plane to Mexico
dropped from the sky just a day ago.
I knew for us it was too late
and wept amid the petals of my rose garden.

© Berenice Dunford

(published in blackmailpress 15)

i am courage

*to be read aloud and quietly*

you will find me
tying up my grief
knot one knit one
pink for a girl
blue for a boy
white for the innocent
black for the newly dead

you will find me
on your street corner
staring at you
chill blue in the face
wiping a finger
over my tears
offering them out to you

and if you have no street
you will still find me
in pieces of thread
in threads of grief
pink blue white black
what colour are you
never mind that

you will find me
i will find you

© Berenice Dunford

(published in blackmailpress 15)

Poet or Player?

Silence lies across the stadium,
all eyes, ears
poised for the swish of air,
the rise and sweep of the ball though space.

All pause for the collective hisses of breath,
and drawn out ooohhhs
as our striker misses his run,
as he catches the sun,
glimpses his creation fleeing amidst eternity.

Anger falls flat upon the pitch.
Arms flap in despair.
Gloves slap against legs.
Slow clap of derision.

Player or Poet? Who can tell the difference, who can reach out with wood, believing it truly not to be tipped with ink? Black, viscous, oozing, drip drip onto worn out, scuffed grass. Echoingly resonant around the hushed stadium, all eyes, all ears poised, eager for the final swish of air and muffled thwack and sweep of leather through space. Pause for the collective intake of breath and drawn out ooh as the striker fails to run, as he catches the sun and glimpses his own creation hurtling towards eternity.

No man can catch this now. The words are out, the ink is scored, scribed into a blue paper sky. Strike on wood, his vision rebounding. Beyond those dreams angry voices rise and fall flat upon the pitch, arms flapped in despair, gloves slapped against legs, hands slowed-clapped in mockery. But our striker has not moved, will not move. He is out, out of reach, out of the game. He is where ever it was he wanted to be, where ever that was, what ever it was he would rather have been. A Poet? Or a Player?

© Berenice Dunford

(published in blackmailpress 15)

Welsh Summer Afternoon.

Whisper in the summer garden,
whisper of a small flicker
of finger touching wind,
of lifting fringes
from herbaceous borders,
of hollyhocks bowing to lupins
prior to the dance,
of roses drooping
petal weary with heat hung haze.

Here is a drift of air,
breathed out softly,
then hush
and quiet again.

Nothing, but nothing
can break this tranquillity
in it's shades and shadows
of a passing afternoon,
gathered around a squat stone cottage
bound to earth
by four hundred years of occupancy,

with walls a murmuring,
agreeing and disagreeing
on who did reside within,
stretched from post medieval squalor
humans and animals alike
crammed into an excrement stenched commune,
to twenty first century
buy us a quaint old cottage
and play at country living.

Walls and trees have seen it all,
have dismissed it all
and drifted back to a summer
sleep-dazed afternoon.

© Berenice Dunford

(published in blackmailpress 11)

The Iron Lady and I.

Poky mid terrace back kitchen,
nightfall of Thatcher's Britain,
lost in a small Welsh town,
Carmarthen nineteen ninety.
I live out my homesick pain
with iron and sweet starch spray.

Of gas fire hiss and media murmur
and rain slashed on grimy glass,
of politics and era's end,
in lonely oblivion I labour.

Words rise from whisper to roar,
to fill a dingy night with colour.
Fading icon pauses to gaze
tears trapped within her eyes.
And suddenly I am held

by quiet calm after rampant storm,
by a pause before curtain fall.
One final closing door upon
my childhood innocence.
I listen for a tolling bell
to roll out across the gloom

and all I hear
is ssshhh of steam
and all I smell is starch.

© Berenice Dunford

(published in blackmailpress 11)