Even in the rain lover's kiss
may only kiss in the rain
even in the sunbraw summer.
Even in the wind even firm feet
fly free. .As the snow melts
and the trees drip even the strongest slip
in the slush on the river's lovers path
that weaves through life
with all it's seasons
and no -one to shelter from the rain where my love and I
always kiss.
The dictator today has time
to watch the birdies fly away
enjoy the view of his hills
spot the dots of people down below
merge into a scene he has no control.
He cannot synchronize those birds as
he would wish or even melt the snow.
He cannot know the thoughts of those down below.
Our dictator knows even his power
cannot make beauty more fair.
*******
He seems so ill to them
so fallen
so rich with dirt
and pills and penny pieces
and his own private
purple haze
to those who deign
to gaze at him, all, so loaded with
their own stones,
never, in this sun of eyes, ever
going to get home.
To them I write,
in their dark and light
lost in the mixing colours,
to her he loves, this love
the Junkie could not kill.
Dream by Adam L Parry.
Red bright, in my beautiful dream, a snow queen
long locked away- our
eyes met over the ice-cream counter-
a green bag over her shoulder
of plastic and black
her pale face, unmarred,
unfreckled, she sleepwalks
to work, dreams her own
dreams counting the footprints in the snow
I left behind.
Perhaps, perhaps the snow
Queen will come to me as I sleep
In Beauty.
So strange that dream,
lucid , leering, it comes again.
She looks weightless as a whisper
so strange so many dreams all special effects in her daymares
so unaware as kaleidescopes mirror in her blue, blue eyes.
Secure in her own colours, needs no tints or photoshop
to make her more beautiful
her eyes not yet a faded blue prized with life her blue she won.
let her lie, gently her eyes close. let her dream of the day sleepers
their stares and the of wonder of the lightkeepers.
On Monday
I met an octopus
with silver wings
but she flew away
as soon as I learnt
her language.
On Tuesday
a green cat
with
daisy chains asks me
if I'd smelt her
but I never understand.
On Wednesday
my octopus came back
while the green cat
watched in the grass,
she asked me
if I needed to fly.
On Thursday
she took me there and nowhere
and little later
every, every where
and our green cat got lost
wishing for
singing and silver wings.
On Friday
the weaved woman
walked my way so
surprised by the flying cat
and the new hat
the octopus bought.
On Saturday
the weaved
woman came my way
I'd walk with all day
but later she flew away
and made me cry.
On Sunday no time
to rest, I wake up in the
water
and wonder at the clouds
all of us flying now
like rain in the wind.
The river went by Adam Parry
Once upon a time in the little land of sleep there lived a
lassie called Loz who loved to dance
with the Fairies over the land here and there and back again. Most
mornings she’d watch the old man heading for the river a walking-stick in both
hands who tentatively made his way to the river’s edge where he clumsily sat by
the river as the river went, thinking thoughts he had never thought before.
Loz and the Fairies danced faster than the river went. Up,
up, up Loz went to the top of the tree clad valley and back down then up the
further slope from the river dashing and dancing between the pine trees then hand in hand the ring of Fairies barrelling
down to the river like a mad twelve-headed monster thing she danced in circles
splashing in the water, laughing and happy as new-borns in a fresh green world.
Up, up she dances on, as the Fairies flag and go to sleep, up to her favourite
tree, atop her favourite brae and aloft in the branches she would stare all night
at the beauty of the moving’s of the moon and the stars imagination.
She woke again remembering the laughter in the dream where
she was air-dancing feeling like a miracle.
Soon her Fairy friends took Loz dancing down the hills passing by the old man at
the river-edge his boots off his socks off his feet cooled by the fresh water.
He turned to see the dancing and such perfect laughter and he laughed too long
and loud at the vision as if he had never laughed before.
Loz woke one day high in her treetop thinking it was still
night-time, the stars were veiled and the moon hid behind the dark perhaps a
darker circle in the unnerving night. All the silent night around her had
stilled her want to dance, so slowly she made it to the riverbank in search for
the old man who was always there and decided to walk along the riverbank hoping
to find the old man with his two sticks.
He couldn’t have got far, there was no sign of the Fairy
folk her best friends hidden from her as if they were afraid of the dark. At times she
called their names but soon got frustrated when her friends never came out to
play. She felt abandoned and alone, angry also so she screamed out her Fairy
friends names, still no-one came and she wanted to weep.
Instead she went to river bank in the cold air of the fair
vale excommunicated from the sun, she knelt there on the edge of the bank her
face in the water drinking deep sucking it in as if the cold would wake her
from this nightmare. Her hair sodden with water, rivulets of water streamed
down her face as she stood she started to look for the old man but she never
found him all those thoughts he had never thought before gone as fast as the
river went.
She was freezing and weak with despair she searched the prison
of unlight for the remembrance of sunlight, but she saw no sign, so tired, so
weak, so abandoned as a storm of snow
fell she dropped to her knees and would not move again, so slowly she froze and
she knew she would never move again.
One day in the little land of dreams a Fairy found Loz,
frozen her laughing face gone covered with hoar frost, her sparkling laughing
eyes frosted closed, her body stiff and broken unwilling to dance. The fairy
cried and did not dance again.
On another day another old man with tender feet came into
grey lands of sleep and as the other man sticks gripped in both his two hands,
and as if he were following a pilgrim trail found himself at the river’s bank,
near of pool caught by the rocks about. Whistling through his teeth as he
slowly lowered his bare, sore feet in the water and despite himself cried out
of the thrill of the freezing water. He put his sticks aside and waited for the
cold to numb the pain in his poor feet. A heavy rain fell and he huddled under
his coat pulled over his head and so silent and so still he watched as the
river went.
Almost tranquil cocooned in the dark wet of this land where
the stars were not watched or the sun warming. He had decided that tomorrow he
would cross the river and go in search of greener happier lands, he had seen
not a soul in his journey across the land of sleep as if the land was deserted
except for nightmares and even they hid from him. He fell asleep wrapped in his
sodden clothes and dreamt of a dancing happy girl who went to where the river
went.
Rain fell down on him and soon the wet set him off shivering,
the moment of dawn had come and gone all the land of sleep was lost in the
awful darkness. He wrapped his clothes tightly about him warding off the
invisible rain, burrowed his face in his coat. Then he saw it, a cold light, a
faded circle, hidden. The sight of the light scared, no, terrified him and he
ran barefoot to find shelter from the baleful illumination.
The sudden light hurt his eyes, helpless tears from his eyes
made him want to claw at the rain soggy mud of the riverbank, made him want to
hide from the light he had once thought so beautiful, he dug harder and when
the hole was deep enough he jumped down and pulled down mud that covered him,
blinded by the mud falling on his face.
Thankful now in his burrow, the quarter light of moon in the restless rain, was gone from his
view, and he felt at once that darkness of his living grave was much more
welcoming than the monstrous light beyond, and here too it was a lot warmer and
soon the chill in bones subsided. He could have hidden, there almost breathing
the mud, forever. Yet as the palsied sun rose the terrifying ghost ivory white
went where it would and as if somehow aware, he dug himself out eventually,
stood at edge plastered from foot to head in dirt.
Too make matters even worse he had unmanned himself, he
blushed at the thought of it, then laughed to himself, who would notice in all
this he crawled to the river’s edge. The
river roared as if it had become the whole world, the river went too fast
disorientating his eyes, spray from the river startled his face. He stripped
and washed himself washed the clothes, once again he blushed at his stains
yellow and brown that had been left as reminder of his fear
Yellow sunlight, battling sun, lost sun forced him to put on
his still damp clothes, he found his sticks and was filled with relief. Now he
had been restored to a level of pride he humbly allowed himself he stood tall
strong fist gripping his sticks he looked up at the sun and the yellow haze
looked down amazed and Lenny his sticks in his two hands, dances across the
river as if he were buoyed above the surface as a he remembered a song he
loved.
One day Loz dried her clothes on a rock. That didn’t take
long for if they were still damp she could dance herself dry. But a new
tiredness overcame her and she could barely breath she took off her shirt and
skirt and took of her shoes. Then naked she flew into the morning freer than
ever before. Then she flew into dark pines and the Fairy-folk sing, can sing
again and they found Loz staring down into the valley. She saw another man
walking his walking sticks through the sunless land. She saw him make his way
to the river, holding he sat his sticks in both hands he looked out the winter and saw her red shoes by the river
bank and her clothes. She climbed down to the valley. He watched the water
heard the noise of it. Loz sat down beside of him, smiled at the old man and
asked him to dance.
So they did dance hand in hand along the bank then back
again. Her clothes were dry and she dressed and took the old man’s hand and
they danced so swiftly and so far in the once green valley. They ended up back
on the river, Loz was hot and felt restricted in clothes, now she stripped and
stood proudly and took his hand and once more as if the old man was superman he
never stopped and spun around faster and faster never flagging, now back at the
riverbank watching the way the river went
and singing the songs the fairy folk had taught Loz and river roared
swiftly by. The hidden sun blind to it.
The ghost circle of light bewitched the man, he stared as if
he had never seen moonlight before. He was not afraid, nor was he tired after
dancing all day, now still he needed to dance, beneath the moon as beautiful as
a baby’s face, transfixed until the parody of sunrise when Loz awoke. Then let
us dance and they jumped up on tiptoes and fell dancing on the top of the river
water, the river burbled and gurgled with pleasure as they spun holding each
other in their arms, and river roared with laughter together they pirouetted
and danced the length of the river going where it went. Still they dance and
the flow took them far beyond the bends in the river, faster and faster they
danced so eager to escape the sun abandoned little land of sleep.
And as they went further the fairy folk sang from the bank,
serenading the river making Loz feeling less alone she took Lennie’s hand. The
river went beneath them the dancers held safe by the tides while they witnessed
a seagull watching, more came the seagulls flocked and, she jumped up to catch
one but it eluded her. Tired on the cliffs the fairies stopped singing sadly
that Loz and Lennie were going where the river went, tears too that the would
never see Loz again and they wept into the water. But one of the fairies flew
to Loz from the cliff. Loz’s Helen, her first fairy friend who taught her dance. Now
she was air dancing as she did in her dreams Helen was drenched and Lennie put
her on his shoulder and a rush of the current took them further from blackened
land.
They danced all day faster as if they were a whirling
dervish, they watched the sky that was of different shades of blue with opal
clouds fresh-made in the sky.
She lost Lennie above the roar and rumble of the water and
all the fairies delighted the river with songs only fairy folk sing. Soon the
river was to arrive soon to where the river went and a great waves propelled
them along and then another wave the sea smashed into them and drowned the
valley and the fairies’ songs were swot away, but Loz reached up atop the wave she
screamed out new songs and ecstatically pogoed on the wave, waltzed on the
surge of the wave, the river reached the sea and they fell into the salty
water, swam to the beaches and lay on the sand and laughed at the love in the
little land of sleep and drifted off and dreamt of another day in the land of
sleep.
Peterculter 2024
Gifts from The Republic of
Tea-time
by Adam Parry.
Mrs Six Faces cuts my cake and
takes the first slice for herself as usual. Nana wanted to pour the tea, but
Mum took the pot off her. Nana had already worked her way through the cheese
and pickle butties that I made with my own fair hands, she was looking tired
and hardly able to lift the teapot. I watched Mrs Six Faces gobble her salmon
sandwiches-taking two of those pink fondant fancies I like- like a skinny horse just come off a diet. I
moved the plate of shortbread over to my side of the table when she wasn’t
looking. There were only Nutella sandwiches left, grudgingly I bit into them
giving Lady Six faces a right dirty look, I shared the short- bread with Mum and
Nana as she had left for her book club.
Mum had poured the tea and I put in the milk I was only allowed one half of a
sugar spoon I didn’t like it to sweet. Nana sucked on the short bread she’d
dipped in her tea, so between Mum and me the plate soon emptied. As Mum took
Nana up to bed I tided up and washed the dishes, dried and put everything away.
The boys were never around at tea-time, Grandad, or Dad or
the wee boys. They never sat round the table with it rose embroidered white
table cloth. I’d try and persuade them say I’d make any sandwiches they liked.
But come Tea-time they we’re out of sight and sound still I enjoyed it watching
Nana sucking on soggy short bread, laughing to myself at the look Mrs Six Faces
gave me when I moved the bowl of sugary tablet out of range.
They watched me like parrots
when I cut the onions or made decorative tomatoes.
This day Hilary my older
Sister was staying with us we were all round the table and she gushed ‘you
should be a cordon bleu chef’, but didn’t know who or what that was and I
passed the plate, Mrs Six Faces was at the book club so there was plenty to go
around. Nana wanted another cup of tea
but Mum said it’d keep her up all night like the last time. But I watched as they
poured my special tea and their eyes lit up at the aroma. So I watch them my
sister and Mum and Nan. Learnt to notice the tea time treat they most enjoyed, I carefully watched
Nan, her hand not shaking as she poured the tea chomping her salad cream sandwiches
and the cake, so light and fresh. She cut Nan’s second slice, mother had what’s
left but she always give her the last bits of meringue as if it were important
medicine piece by piece to her lips Mum almost giggles and she is so proud by
the look in mum’s eyes.
So I watched and learnt and
I’d fill up the huge wedding day plates, which-she’d been told when she was
little- disappeared one day and Nan had been frantic looking for them which she
soon did, the way Mum told it was a Greek epic. With cakes I devised fresh from the oven, all their treats and new
ones I wanted to tempt them with. Now that Mrs Six Faces was permanently lodged
in the book club chatter went tireless about the table, talking with our mouths
full reaching over the table to get the last bit of chocolate cake was no
longer a military operation. A night now and again Nan would sing, she had a
beautiful voice, I sing her songs in my head as I prepare and bake, whip cream,
slice fruit as if I have Nan’s greatest hits coming through my ear-phones.
One
morning Dad woke up early and called up the stairs, ‘if you so good at cooking
you can make my breakfast.’ I’d watched him many times making his own so I knew
the basic ingredients, how he liked his bacon crisp as a soldier and his eggs
runny and his tomatoes squishy so I set to the task with pleasure, his own
cooking was atrocious fried eggs turned into scrambled eggs at his touch, so
when I presented him with the plate he almost looked surprised as if this was
the breakfast he only ever dreamed over. It was all gone as I washed the dishes
and afterwards the plate looked licked clean and was working on the marmalade
and burnt toast he liked, he looked up at me grinning, ‘it would’ve been better
in bed.’ I huffed. ‘Compliments to the chef,’ he said in a French accent to
cheer me up, he had never said he was proud of me and now he didn’t have to as
he sat there smiling at me.
‘Molto
beno,’ he said, he had started saying that a lot about everything, and stood to
get ready for work. Often he got me to make his breakfast and his second
breakfast, he was always late for work, while I washed the dishes he ‘d clap
behind my back and giggled into sink. So, soon, like the tea parties it became
a regular thing. Father complementing me as if I were an Italian Princes as I
washed up. The wee ones loving the same crisp soldier of bacon as their father.
I put down the platefuls of breakfast for them gobble down as if they were in a
race to finish first.
Mind
you Mum came down and Nan slowly behind came down to aroma from the kitchen that
had broken into their dreams and lured them to me. I kept them out of the
kitchen and they sat to wait until their breakfast was ready. I had fresh hot
bread baking in the cooker as I stirred the beans and fried mushrooms and eggs.
Mum was happy about the plate I put in front of her, but Nan didn’t like
mushrooms and the egg looked like it’d put it through a grinder. ‘I don’t want
them’, she grumbled, so I scraped them off her plate and added two of the beef
sausages I had kept for my own breakfast. Carefully I rushed about making sure
the food would still be hot when I gave them it. For once I told my sister to
wash the dishes as I still had to get to school on time, she had eaten more
than even Dad and left me nothing for my own breakfast, as they grew the wee
ones asked me to make their pack lunches as they indicated with a finger down
their throats at Mum’s derisory lunches. I’d make apple pies for them and
cheese and tuna sandwiches I knew they enjoyed.
Of
course tea times were only every other day now.
If
a guest came to the house I’d create something special for them and after the
shambles of last Christmas dinner I was put in charge. For special days I would
make from scratch chicken soup and crusty bread.
I
was so busy making so many different food for everyone tea-times were only once
a week now and I was missing them.
I
felt such a delight watching them eat, at nights I dreamt of being a short
order chef in a New York deli. I told the dream to Dad and he laughed and said:
‘No
Yank is going to you away from us.’
At
class I learned how to make meringues and custard slices which the greedy boys
liked better than me, but I kept a few hidden as they were my favourites and I
was always left with dregs. But over the year they must have gobbled down a
thousand custard slices, and there were Mum and Nan to consider before me, Nan
always made a mess of them custard and icy top sticking her fingers together as
if she could never let go. Later I started to learned to make Strawberry
Pavlova’s. When I took the pavlova out of the box school provided Dad and the
boys would crane their necks over the box to see my latest speciality. I said:
‘
Why don’t you have tea with me and mum and Nan. All the family traipsed behind
down the stairs to our tea room. Dad held the door for me but stood in the
doorway. I told him:
‘Come
in, come in.’ With my arms spread indicating the treats on the table, a pavlova at the centre
of the table, Dad loved strawberries, he’d even been trying to grow some until
most of the strawberry plants died. So the temptations gave him a push in the
door. To Mum’s surprise kids from the neighbourhood queued up to join Tea-time.
‘We
need more cups’. Mum said. Dad said, ‘ we need more strawberry pavlovas.’ I
laughed. But, soon we were all crammed around the table like starvelings, forks
poised.
For
the first time I poured the tea time tea before anybody else did then I sat on
Dad’s lap feeding him pieces of his favourite pavlova. I’d never heard him
laugh so much.
He
never drank his tea.
