Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

   Mother knew.

   ‘Don’t marry him, Bertha’, she said to me.  ‘Go back to Birmingham.  Get another good job and make something of yourself’.  But I wouldn’t be told.

   Oh, he were nice to me at first.  Breakfast in bed, even.  I might have known it were too good to last.  He near choked me once.  Just because his ruddy dinner weren’t ready.  And - in bed - he were -

   No, not an animal.  An animal knows what’s natural and gets on with it.  What he wanted were - No, I can’t tell you.  But even with normal - relations - the language - the words - Yes.  That one.

   He’s always had a nasty streak.  Even towards his own flesh and blood.  Did you hear about what happened when he were out walking with my little Connie?  Saw this cat and, bang.  Shoots it.  Right in front of the child.  And not a word of comfort for poor Connie.  Her Gran told me about it.  Said poor little kiddie fairly skriked her eyes out.

   And she’d not say so if it weren’t true.  Not one to do me any favours - not her!  Turned my little Connie against me, she has.  But I know who I’ve got to thank for that.

   Gran says the lady - Lady Chatterley - were right there.  Almost saw cat shot.  Even walked little Connie back to her Gran’s.  Gave her sixpence to try and cheer her up.  Well, she ought to have known what she were getting herself into right then.  But some folk won’t be told.

   Oh, yes, I should say so.  The whole village knows.  Bert the poacher used to keep an eye on that nasty hut of his.  Knew he’d a clear run when the pair of them went in.  And just look at this!  Found it in with his shirts.  See the label?  Coty wood-Violet!  You can’t tell me that belonged to any working lass.

   And everybody says, ‘Oh, poor Sir Clifford!’

   But what about poor me?