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    So
    in the war
    my grandfather served in submarines
    He said
    that they stank
    The men sweated all the time
    and sweat
    and condensation
    dripped from everything
    From the bunks
    from the metal
    from the light bulbs
    from the men themselves
    The air was rank and heavy
    hanging dense
    like the oil that smeared everything
    Mostly men just lay in their bunks
    There were two men to a bunk
    one awake
    at his post
    the other sleeping
    A constant turnaround
    so that the beds never got cold
    and the lice never went hungry
    Above my grandfather’s bunk
    he stuck a picture
    It was a picture of himself
    Standing alone
    arms outstretched
    head back
    blowing a kiss at the sky
    He looked tiny
    He was in a field
    alone
    with mountains behind him
    and the blue, blue sky
    stretching away like an ocean
    My grandfather would lie
    and put himself
    between those distant horizons
    where he’d once stood
    The other men
    had pictures of wives, girlfriends, lovers, pin-ups
    But my grandmother
    sent this particular photograph
    to my grandfather
    and it was this
    he told me
    that made him realise
    what a rare woman she was

    Songs That Are Whistled

    Here’s to the lonely country girls
    in shotgun city apartments.
    Miles from home
    with only ‘phone calls
    and breakfasts and songs
    served to hipster losers
    to convince themselves
    they made the right decision.
    To the herb gardens
    on kitchen tables.
    To pine air fresheners
    and scrubbed vegetables,
    and birdsong
    and fire engines
    that shrill outside.
    The potted plants
    grown with love
    in fired china.

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