With Adrian at the Peace Festival
(i.m. Adrian Mitchell)

You didn’t bat an eyelid
when I told you my son had fought in Iraq.
It took some courage to say it -
knowing where you stood and why you had come.

You smiled and said nothing -
no judgement or rebuke.

I tried to unpick the conundrum
of the gung-ho soldier with a pacifist mum -

-how nothing I felt or believed in fitted -
as if the gun had  been in my hands,
or placed in his
by something I had omitted
to do, or say, or understand  
and in the face of  it all,
I could do nothing but love.

Now  your Shadow grows  huge and kind
down  my long table
on its shoulder – a Dove

The Solace of Cupboards

What it was that brought it about that first time,
He cannot now quite account for.
That day there was nothing untoward,
No crisis of any kind, only the usual pressures,
Too many people breezing in,
Proclaiming he was the very man they wanted to see,
To beg a favour, oblivious to all that he had on
His plate, as telephones shredded the air,
The photocopier churning out yet more
Sets of minutes rife with action points.
Then the moment came
When he rose abruptly from his desk
Without a word to anyone, as if prompted, out of the blue,
By something he had suddenly remembered,
Slipping the stationery cupboard key off its hook,
And striding purposefully away.
He sensed the bewilderment
That followed him along the corridor
But that did not deflect him. He went inside
To immerse himself in the darkness there,
Locking the door to ensure he would not be interrupted.
The benefit was immediate,
A release he would not have thought possible.

The stacked paper gave off no note,
The packs of pens were voiceless.
All that was visible around the door,
A razor- thin beading of light.
Someone went by whose clotted
Breathing he recognised
But otherwise there was nothing to prevent him
Expanding into an infinite dissolve
That was the solace he had been after.
Now this aberration has hardened into a habit,
One he is not prepared to forgo and his sudden
Familiar absences are merely how he is these days
In the eyes of his staff. He believes he is the only one
To have fumbled upon this kind of escape
But there are legions like him everywhere,
Standing alone for respite in dark places
Until they are ready to be seen again.