Posted in Love

Trace Element

He came from nowhere
and went back there,
wasn’t around in my first year, or third
only the second.
Would sometimes sing out loud, in the lab – surprisingly well –
gave an especially good rendition of My Eyes Adored You
so good, not even the po-faced issued a ban –
the lemons,
the ones born without a Christian name
always Mr or Dr or Professor.

Life after university …
always warm and expansive at 19.
Steve and the future :
thought he might develop a contraceptive gateau
“people could eat their cake and have it too.”
And, as a plan B – politics,
stood in local and community elections
as Rusty Lead-Head, representing the corrugated iron party.

Springtime exams – Autumn enrolment,
he was there …… and then he wasn’t.
He never became tedious, or blowhard
or attention seeking
or down-shelfed to acknowledgement only –
he just disappeared.
Memory often pulls out his image,
polishes the recollection ……. and smiles.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.