John Short

ME AND THE DEMONS

Seven years old
in Saint Cecilia’s church,
murals of scorched monsters,
red obscenities
dragging souls to hell.

Nudged down the left aisle
to that marble altar
I kneel under huge pillars
distant from the priest
whose beatific radar doesn’t track
my schoolboy error
and I eventually give up.
		
Denied the sacrament,
denied protection
I return demoralised to the pew,
to my little life, just
me and the demons now.

CANAL SONG

Today I saw mallards
fed crumbs by a local drunkard
stumbling from the Grapes
onto the murky cut.
He crooned a forgotten song
that floated on the wind
as narrow boats chugged past
a chalky towpath
old as ghosts of workers
mean-eyed, coal dust-coated
heaving sacks and urging horses
in days now deemed heroic.
It guided him home
under mossy humpbacked stone
round each bend,
skirting the lonely fields
and the rapine housing projects.

PROGRESS

We crossed by chance
in granite streets
one night and you said hello.
I smoked cigarettes
waiting for you
in bars in those old streets
before they murdered the atmosphere
then went home, bought
a laptop and learned to use it.

Ten years later still together
despite the twists
and we’ve come a distance.
I know all the poets;
stress for your extravagances:
this flat we can’t afford
hope future progress
may be possible
but you laugh and say the world
is fixed and unpredictable.

Flights, Issue Nine, June 2023