The nets are hung in the fishermen’s huts
at the old end of town, where the road runs out;
the houses cling to east and west hills.
The wind fills his eyes with tears
The seaside was somewhere you escaped to;
candy floss, fairground rides, shrimps
in fresh pools; crunchy egg and eggshell sarnies,
sodden fish and chips, pier closed for repairs
Thursday 16th December 2010 11:48 pm
Tags: family,nets,old age,seaside
Bobbing in moonlight, pleasured by waves;
journeying through swell, under stars;
buffeted by wildness, first murmur, then roar;
smacked against rocks, the foam and the crack
Coasting on rollers, taken for a ride;
immersion, hope, exhilaration, surprise;
borne along on billows, swept up by joy;
directed where the tide decides
Chill dawn emergi...
Thursday 19th August 2010 9:44 am
Seeds, sheets, plugs, paint; something of everything
if not much range. Pots, pencils, saucers, plates;
pocket-money treasures, find a present
for your gran. Towels, wrapping paper, pins.
Sometimes you came away with a bargain.
If only they didn’t keep moving the plants,
picture frames, toys, socks and sockets, sweets.
Times changed; you only called in now a...
Saturday 3rd July 2010 10:58 am
up Mark Lawrenson's backside;
it's what he deserves
Monday 14th June 2010 5:52 pm
Tags: football,Mark Lawrenson,vuvuzela
(This one's for Ray, and all the others out there)
Brazil in Mexico;
Bonetti’s blunder and Gazza’s tears;
Pele, Eusebio, Cruyff;
North Korea, when they were plucky, not dangerous and mad;
The often-absent Tartan army;
Beckenbauer’s grace and Zidane’s rage;
Argentina! Rattin’s dismissal, Maradona’s revenge;
Can Drogba carry Africa’s flag?...
Friday 11th June 2010 9:08 am
Tags: Football,World Cup
Once it was a time that glowed:
turned-up collar, hurrying through glistening, early 60s streets.
A kind of muddling, room at Odsal Top,
or summat like that;
steam train always whistling in the distance
Dashing for the bus; overcoats,
shopping bags, windows steamed up,
Running the last yards from the corner,
hammering at t...
Thursday 29th April 2010 7:32 pm
Tags: north,old age,south,youth
My dad, no hero, didn't look
for punch-ups. When the call came
he signed for the pay corps.
But the look on his face
sometimes got him into bother.
He couldn't quite stomach the drilling,
or hide what he thought
of the shouts, the how's your father,
the moustache and tiny eyes,
the whole bloody rigmarole of the sergeant major.
Tuesday 23rd February 2010 8:37 pm
Tags From Last Year
Preeti Sinha on The Eleven-Plus (14 days ago)
Preeti Sinha on Snapshots (14 days ago)