the book of arrivals

Getting on for 8 a.m. Along a dirt track from the main road, through the allotments. Young woman hunched on the ground. Could be fifteen years old, or perhaps between twenty and thirty. Hello? Are you okay? No response. Seems to be insensible, or asleep. Shoulders bare, long hair hanging forward, obscuring face. Walk on, but stop and look back. Are you alright? What’s your name? Man with dog arrives. I seen her and I said I’d come back and check in half an hour. Give her time I said. She tries to stand. She is floating like an intoxicated string-puppet. She staggers, bends over, looking down. Feet move in a crazy flat-foot dance. Topples and bangs head on a concrete slab. Groans. Rolls, and reaches out an arm to stand. Stay down! Sit down! Sit down! Three other people staring: man with dog, silent refugee woman, and smiling refugee man, toting a bag of carryouts. Man with dog says don’t go near, she might have something sharp. We get a lot of that. She’s on the browns. Do...

  Dad had four brothers Two were dead Peter David and Peter George Scrolls on the wall shorten their names to Pte And say Peace and Freedom and King and Country   After work Dad carries his bike up the staircase Parks it on the landing under the scrolls of the Peters Cuts the handlebars with a hacksaw To keep it narrow so we can squeeze past And he can get through the traffic   The main road shakes beneath lorries and buses Frosted glass in the front door buzzes Stink of floor polish and damp old mats To left and right every species of mobility In perpetual commotion   We make a noise with meccano on the floor Mrs Downstairs launches the wrong end of a broom into orbit Complains to Mum about her nerves When she goes out shopping we laugh and run And Mum smiles and stamps her feet   In our beds at night we talk and listen And blindly guess the passing traffic Fords are easy and Beezer bikes and motor scooters ...