A hundred peacocks' eyes

Surveyed the cornflower field.

 

Brenda wore an ivory blouse

And her taffeta underskirts,

Fire red and antique gold, swirled

As she broke cover from the wallflower ranks

And stepped across no man's land

From the girls' side of the Palais

To the boys' side of the Palais

Where we stood

A straggle of Burton's mannequins

In drain pipes and brothel creepers and drapes

Laundry swaying on a summer breeze line

Hovering above a toxic swamp of suppressed testosterone

And Old Spice, Lifebuoy, Arrid and Brut

 

Camels and Capstan Full Strength

Crushed underfoot

Or docked behind ears for later

Chests inflating

Buttonholes straining

As pecs were flexed

 

She was the object of desire

Of a hundred obscure gazing eyes

 

The first chick to brave

The empty space

Dappled by the dance hall

Glitter ball

 

Nobody moved

We wondered who

She would skip to

And offer her outstretched hand

To jive

To “Norrie Paramor Live”.

 

We all wanted to be

The one she

Lit upon.

 

I was just another face in the crowd

I silent prayed the deity

“Please God, let her pick me”

 

But she chose another

They always did

 

Brenda's face

Her moves

Her skirts

Her legs swinging wide

And high around

Her pick's hips.

Her smile

His smirk

And wink to his mates

Behind her back

 

And when Norrie Paramor

And his orchestra

Slid into the "Love me Tender"

Slow smooch that closed the show

Before the Anthem dash for the door

 

Brenda came over

And pressed herself to him

Eyes closed

Lost in the music

His hands busy on the taffeta.

 

They left arm in arm I lurked behind

The fascinating fastening

Pimpling the back of her satin blouse

Should have been mine to fumble

After we had sneaked inside her house

Avoiding the floorboard that always squeaked

And drank dad's gin

Topping the bottle with water

Up to his red ink line marker

And flustered together

Stretched on the sofa

 

But she got on her bus with him

And rested her head on his shoulder.

 

I watched her over summers

Her belly swelling with child too often

 

Shopworn

Trudging Poundland

Buggy submerged

By carrier bags

And kids

 

At school gates

Where our sons shared

Trouser ripping playground scrapes

Her eyes raw from tears

Or blackened tripping kerbs or down a stair

 

We never shared a word

 

Through the window

Of “Smell the Roses”

Buying a dutiful

Valentine's Day bouquet

For my fast estranging ‘trouble and strife'

 

Seeing Brenda standing

A pavement away

Eroded

Sad

And cold

 

‘Stuff the wife'

 

I handed Brenda the small bouquet

And saw from a distance

She tossed it away.

 

I retrieved it quick

And wiped it clean

 

Put the blooms in a crystal vase

And watched the water gradually greening

And the petals papering

Slowly dying

Falling and landing

On final demands

And solicitor's letters

‘Pending' in the hearth.

 

The terminus ward

Smells of dettol and fuchsias - hers

And a délicatesse of urine - mine.

Our grandsons visit

And I wish they wouldn't

They make too much noise

And brawl

I don't recall their names

Except for Tommy or is it Timmy?

They're all the same to me.

 

They finger the tubes

Piercing the veins

Of our translucent

Parchment arms

Gaze open mouthed

At bleeping dials

And thankfully

Go home again

 

I waved a final flutter

As nurses curtained Brenda's bed

Perhaps she fluttered back

Maybe nodded her head.

 

There is little left to say

Discreetly they took

Her fuchsia vase

And Lucozade

And wheeled her

Lifeless

 

Away