FRANKS CASKET

KEVIN CADWALLENDER
Another Diary Entry
(for and after Edwin Brock)

I was suspicious of Brock's violins
And could not tell if Magnolia was white
Or if the tough dogs ripping at the
Woodwork in Mowbray Gardens
Were dangerous.
Ultimately, or not as the seasons
Turned us inside out, the buggies
And pushchairs we manoeuvred
Through the chess men clutching
Brown paper bibles were carrying
Other Edens in their clever
Collapsible hearts.
Ours had been padlocked up
For the winter and the old men
With woods clacking like
Their teeth were wearing black
At the church yard and
Emptying mothballs and
Blossom petals
Out of wide lapelled suits
With once dashing bags
Flagging like ensigns
At their thin legs.

Foreign Bodies

a)

You say,
'I should send you to Leicester for that!'
I say,
'You mean Coventry.'
You say,
'I've never been to Coventry.'
I say,
'Maybe we should go together.'
After that
we may as well have.

'Golden is silenced,' she whispers
in an accent as unfamiliar as
Leicester's less famous Cathedral.


b)

'My wife doesn't understand me,'
I tell you in desperation.
You say,
'Where is she from?
Why did you marry someone
who doesn't speak English?'
I say,
'That's not what I meant,'
fumbling for an alibi that
transcends language.

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