Poem - The Watch

The watch

I mistook a tree for my father.

Listen. I travelled to his house. I worked.

After, we drank.

The pub glowed, he shed years, I matured.

He bore me home, I locked up, lay firmly down 

How was I caught so far off, so late for the watch?

In his cot, thunder, not quite hearing his words.

At dawn, in my z-bed, shaken, my corner eye

Saw a risen man

through the window at some early task

head inclined to carrying arms. Then

I mistook him. It was the plum tree

predating us all,

moving to the weather, which had turned. 

James Bullion

Flash Fiction - My neighbour who broke down in her own garden

MY NEIGHBOUR WHO BROKE DOWN IN HER OWN GARDEN

I went out at half one, the letter between my lips, and I was off, thinking, ‘posture’. Though young, I stoop.

She was not there then.

I would have seen her, having gone out through the back. Hereabouts people say, ‘front doors are for coffins.’

I was back, through the front, by half four. Worst case she was there four hours.

(I wasted an hour on; taking boots off; on-the-spur tidying; coffee; carefully drying my hands; pausing to hold the letter and think to go out and actually post it).

            I roll up outside now. Or the door-way, if it rains. Rules. You smoke less.

            I leaned, lit up, looked up, saw her through the smoke. She was draped over her washing line, amongst the clothes, arms hooked over. It held her but bowed with the weight. Eyes down, distant. She was swaying, not naturally, making the movement herself.

I knew some pieces. Job gone through ill health. (Something physical – nothing like this). On benefits, though they push it with her. Mid-50s, Hungarian, a dissident’s widow. She gardens, sings beautifully. The son died from kidney failure back when.

            I admit that my first thought was, ‘I am going to have to put this cigarette out.

            “Mrs Kuprin?” I called but she didn’t answer and so I went up to the fence and stood immediately opposite to her. I called her again and this time I added, ‘What is wrong Mrs Kuprin?’

James Bullion

Poem - Sir, you have dropped your bag

Sir, you have dropped your bag

What did your brother report?

That you went out to buy eggs.

You picked carefully, candled

each, your hands before the

light. You are Santosh Kumar.

You are no fool.

Mehrauli market, New Delhi. Bellow

of accordion, beat of a drum. Flap

and thwack of linen on the balconies

above. Fizz of weaving tooting bikes,

a web of wires dangle light, fires for

the rasp and toss of cooking food. 

Trader shouts amidst the acrid stink

of fruit, of dried fish, of warm leather.

What did you hear of the bike's approach?

When those men hurled the polythene bag,

why did you hear the rustle and the thud?

Why did you possess that quiet politeness,

that humanity to pick it up and offer it back?

Your brother never said. The bomb took

your head off. You were equal to its puny

mass so it stole just you, in all that throng.

Powerless I wish you rescued just before

the end, transmigrated, echoing Tiresias.

Of a sudden you were a kingfisher overhanging

the great river, beating your wings, bobbing

your head. Your oil eye judged the distance.

Your missile beak swooped, emerged, settled it. 

Perched, you beat the catch to death then

returned to your burrow, the earth above you.

What did your brother report?

That you went out to buy eggs.

What did they say you said?

Sir, you have dropped your bag.

Sir, you have dropped your bag.

Sir, you have dropped your bag.