A MomentÕs Harm in the Graveyard

 

Say hello to Hendon for me, I said.

Did you make it to the Olympics? she replied.

 

We met in a coffee house in Golders Green,

sat and watched the parade of Jewish families,

shalom, hello, moving between bakeries,

cafˇs and restaurants, halal.

Everything made you laugh; my northern accent,

all of its foibles, and the names of tube-stops,

especially and always Cockfosters.

I did visit the Olympic village; she returned

to London one summer,

  and walked Traf.Square,

St.Pauls, Pal Mal – went as far out as Windsor.

 

There was a garden once, I remind her in email,

deep in the heart of Farringdon,

in the grounds of a church, where we sat

for the first time alone and kissed.

You were all jostle and frisk, but

a true English Gent must push to resist.

Pulling towards dusk, in august, amongst

the gravestones, we kissed, kissed

  and kissed.

  

 

 

Just Sea Birds

 

Bempton Cliffs

 

There could be romance here;

I have found it in the cracks

and crevices of rock faces –

coastal slides, sides of cliffs.

 

  Gannets are tuned in to whine;

  Shags are goosed-black,

  Guillemots are puffins

  lacking the postage stamp.

  Kittiwakes, Razorbills, once or

  twice a Ring Ouzel.

 

A bridge must be built,

at our own pace, almost glacial,

  between two jutting

heads.

 

And then birds will

flutter in and

  rest;

maybe even doves,

and doves

and doves.

 

 

 

Departures

 

Soon enough, in a matter of days,

you will be gone.

Everything about everything that has

happened between us has built up to this –

these last days.

 

For now, I can feel you moving

through the same streets that I do,

in the town weÕve always known,

the curbs weÕve visited,

the corners where weÕve grown.

 

By this time next week you will have

slipped away, skipped continents;

picked your luggage carefully:

digi-cam, kindle, currency.

 

Then tripped through two or three departure gates,

caught the eye of groups of strangers,

contemplating sites of US states,

and faces of the boys youÕll see.

 

I too will move from the streets

and pubs and parks of our county –

so there will come a day

once again when we meet,

on common ground.

I will seek some common ground.

 

 

© Christy Hall

 

BIO:   Christy Hall is a UK based poet; he is currently writing his first full length collection, which has a working titled of "Salt and the Ocean."  He graduated with a Master's degree in Creative Writing in 2010 from the University of Hull. He has been published extensively online as well as in print. His debut chapbook, "Later, You Returned to the Sea," is available through Fire Hazard Press