Anniversary

Just as I was about to leave

my father said, ‘Now,’ in his emphatic way,

‘move this clock to where I can see it.

It’s important I can see the time.’

So I moved the alarm clock,

with its large, uncluttered face

and cracked, sellotaped housing

onto his bedside table.

When I returned the next day

he had been moved to another ward

to drift into that drowsy place

between life and death.

His eyes were shut and for a time

I held his hand and listened to his

laboured, stertorous breathing,

and noticed that a kind nurse

had moved the clock, together with

his false teeth, and had

arranged them on the cubical

next to his bed.

And I wondered idly at what time

the time had ceased to be

important to him – and he 

closed his eyes for ever.

© Tim Scott 

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Temptation

When we were aged six

and went to parties together

you were annoying because

you were A GIRL.

So when you bent over

to tighten your sandals

presenting your bottom

as neat as an acorn

the temptation was too much:

a well aimed boot propelled you

into a patch of stinging nettles

from which you howled.

Fifty years later

you have not forgiven me.

© Tim Scott

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Paradise

A walkie-talkie squawked. Eighty yards away, Ben spotted a solemn circle of people, some standing in gently lapping waves.

Helen had been blithe, almost child-like, on holiday: how she had been enchanted by light, lush fronds, scampering lizards, the babble of tongues.

Ben knew who he’d find – stark and still.

© Tim Scott

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Guilty Secrets

DC Sniffer flourishes a photo of a sheepish-looking me.

“Why were you entering this place of ill-repute, sir?” He calls me ‘sir’ as he tramples over flower-beds, shag-pile and shredded dignity, fig-leaf politeness excusing impertinent prying.

“Knickers,” I reply, “of the comedy-festive variety: cheaper in Primark than M&S.”

© Tim Scott
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Regrets

“Why exactly are we here?” quizzed Cathy, sweeping condensation from the cabin’s window to peer at cheerless ducks and the rain-streaked stonework of a canal bridge.

“Peter said …” began Tom.

“Yes, Peter! You follow him; stupidly, I follow you.” She began tapping on her phone. “Weak,” she snapped. “Weak.”

© Tim Scott
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Referendumwocky

'twas Brexit and the slithy gove
did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
all chortly were the boris: "Oh crikey!"
and the farage outgrabed.

Beware the stock market old son,
the gilts that spike, the shares that crash.
Beware that Junker bird and shun

the frumious backlash.

© Tim Scott
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'What we wish, we readily believe, and what we ourselves think, we imagine others think also.' - Julius Caesar

Michael stabbed the send button on his computer. That'll cook his goose, he thought: now they'll fall in line behind me. Nearly there. He licked his lizard lips.

Later, Boris fell on his sword.

Across town, though, hushpuppied Ken extolled a bloody difficult woman, hoping the camera was indeed running...

© Tim Scott
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Hope

At nineteen
you were one of those girls
who seemed old before their time:
you liked Jane Austen
and country walks with spaniels;
but your underwear -
black, lacy and bold,
drying on your radiator -
confounded this.

You stayed in an old convent
with rooms named after virtues:
you lived in Hope.

Twenty years later
it was MND
that took this from you
and you from me.

© Tim Scott

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Santa Claustrophobia

The carousel of chavfests over, Peter retrieved lights from the lock-up.

Soon Santa’s reindeer scorched across the rooftop of No 42, whilst LED elves lit up the bay windows like Amsterdam hookers. The drive’s ‘No Turning’ sign was flanked by sparkly unicorns.

“Can’t beat the spirit of Christmas!” he sighed.

© Tim Scott
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On a lighthouse keeper’s last day before retirement

Callum considered the clock glumly.

His marriage had been on the rocks from the outset, so he was used to living alone and communicating by shine language – a friendly wave from time-to-time sufficed.

Could he face the noisome world outside? No: he was between a rock and a hard place.

© Tim Scott
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Ambivalence … Near North Petherton, as I recall

Aged 15, Wazzer – gamesome and stocky - told me of a barley field near his village where he met two kittenish hoydens, drank cider and snogged them both. He’d arranged to meet them again, but now couldn’t:

“Why don’t you go instead?”

And for a moment my blood sang …

© Tim Scott
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