Breathless
We ran the length of the river, or what felt like it,
lungs burning, sides splitting, laughter and shouts
at our heels. Catching our breath in the shallows.
Peeling off socks to cool calloused ankles, picking
at scabs and flicking them across the water, fleets
of tiny ships, old clotted cells soon sinking into silt.
Sitting a bit, safe under the shade of scarred sycamores
getting our breath back, letting the water take it
carry our mischief away, downstream, before tramping home.
The Boys at MSN Skatepark
They sit in a line
at the top of the bowl.
Monochrome uniform
tracksuit, hoody, t-shirt,
the odd cotton vest.
Hair razored into fades
blunting their edges.
Occasionally longer,
flopping soft on top.
Trainered feet resting
against the exponential end
of the concrete curve.
Chatting nonsense.
Banter, joshing, bravado,
hiding their tenderness.
The Boys on a Friday night in MSN, 1969
They sit in a line
at the top of the wall.
Monochrome uniform
jeans and t-shirt,
hair slicked with brylcreem.
Nothing to blunt their edges.
Booted feet resting
against the vertical end
of their unknown futures.
Chatting nonsense.
Bristling for a skirmish
with the Bristol boys,
in on the furniture wagon.
Primed to flirt with girls at The Palais
patiently waiting in their own lines
at the edges of the room.
Some brave enough
to briefly reveal their tenderness.
The Men on MSN High Street
Waiting for Recruitment Centres to Open
They stand in a line
at the top of the road.
Anonymous uniform
blue jeans, t-shirt,
the odd long sleeve and collar.
Hair silvering
at their blunt edges,
thinning on top.
Trainered feet kicking
against the exponential end
of poverty. Aching for change.
Long awaited economic shifts.
Mostly silent.
Latent rage, everyday grief,
residual shame.
Hiding their tenderness
even from themselves.
Proud
Four children between the ages of ten and thirteen debate the injustice of ‘childism’ within the education system. And the fire of their passion is contagious. It isn't fair that children are not listened to in schools. It isn't fair that some teachers have favourites or worse than that, some teachers take against you for no other reason than that they don't like the look of your face. It isn't fair that some kids face bigotry and homophobia and that your friend, the trans kid, is consistently and persistently shut down and remains unheard. But I am proud. That these four small voices, raised to fever pitch by the heat of these injustices care enough, rage enough, and have had enough to go back into their respective schools on Monday and speak up, speak out in defence of the oppressed. Speak out in defence of change. They are right, of course. It isn't fair. Life isn't fair. But perhaps these erstwhile quiet boys will take that fire out into the world and apply that righteous heat to some of the oppressive and unfair systems of power that perpetuate injustice and cause harm to those voiceless marginalised communities in the wider world. Do us all proud.