Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Wednesday, 7 September 2011


Taking them when I set off
Both ghosts with me today
For some reason I can’t shake
So we walk to the pier and turn east
At the sea
Grey and I wish across it momentarily
But that would be France
And not the right place
The only boats out in the chop
Are the RNLI, training I hope
They seem to be beaten
From this distance
By this wind
You two are not interested
Impatient lumps in my skull
As they tack away on metallic liquid hills
That give ungenerously
Causing a static progress
None of us are going backwards

We leave them
And forage
I am starving
If I found some money
I would buy a chicken from Asda
Get a bus home
Roast in the warmth
Looking for twenty pounds ideally
But it is blowy
Volks made money out of people
Maybe some trapped on this cliff
Wasteful tourists only throw receipts it seems

What are these plants?
Woody with black seed pods like a shepherd’s purse
But umbelliform like hemlock
Lots here dying
Maybe sprayed
I am buffeted
Shall we sing
Somewhere beyond the sea…
And never again will I go sailing
I prefer Summer Wind
From across the sea…
Guess who sighs his lullabies?

No money but my eyes scour the earth
And find reminders of youth
Amidst the fag packets and squished tinnies
That Styrofoam aeroplane without wings
I am a kid in Falinge Park
The sun was there
Not here
Some joke, I can feel you laughing inside

I cannot be arsed with Rottingdean
Although you like it
Not my cuppa
I have gone off scones and jam
So I take you down to use the Ovingdean toilet
Then under St Dunstan’s pass and a walk to Wulfran’s
Corn here strangled by bindweed
The white trumpets
Little kids around a grandad’s neck making him bend
No chance of money now
Away from the litter of Brighton coast visitors
Make it to the church and sit in the graveyard
Who was Steyning Beard?
Volks is here too
There are women in the church
I can hear them laughing
It wouldn’t stop you
But I will not deal with company today
Besides I can always come back
When will you?
Up that hill then to the top
Along the racecourse
And I find harebell and vetchling
Amidst bramble which I defruit
And eat apples from a tree
These soldiers dad
That we used to behead
What are they really called
Some kind of plaintain
Cocks and hens?
I like the old words better
Imagining the latin
I still find it hard between
Hogweed, cow parsley and yarrow
Is it in the leaves?
Enter this upper terrace of the valley
It’s all dirty ragwort
Only because of the horses
And nettle and napweed
But what are these little creepers
A carpet for small coppers and
The clouded yellow?

I am with the larks
Invisible amidst the grey
I feel rain
Do you feel it
You are awfully quiet
Have I been breathing regularly?
Did I forget you there?
I shall go on ahead and see you later then
Toadflax, tiny yellow babies
Hung upon the stalk in their swaddle
Bring my head back to earth

I can walk down Bear Road and through the graveyard
Two in one day
Who will be here?
Not Fanny Heaver
She is in Westmeston
And not Fiji’s greatest sportsman
He is in Rochdale
There is a WH Smith though
Not the same
This one died in 1918
An army grave

I shall go home now
I need to get some milk

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