A hundred peacock eyes
Surveyed the cornflower field.

Brenda in an ivory blouse
Her taffeta underskirts,
Fire red and antique gold, swirled
As she broke cover from the wallflower ranks
Crossing the empty space
From the girls' side of the Palais
To the boys' side of the Palais
Where we stood
A straggle of Burton's mannequins
In drain pipes and brothel creepers and drapes
Laundry on a summer breeze line
Swaying in a toxic cloud of testosterone,
Old Spice, Lifebuoy, Arrid and Brut

Camels, bought for show,
Crushed underfoot
Or docked behind ears for later
Chests inflating
Buttons popping

Dappled by the dance hall
Glitter ball
Brenda was
The object of desire
Of a hundred obscure gazing eyes

Nobody moved
We wondered who
She would skip to
And offer her outstretched hand
To jive
To Norrie Paramor and his Orchestra
Live.

I was just a face in the crowd
I silent prayed the deity
“Please God, let her pick me”

She chose another

Brenda's face
Her moves
Her skirts
Her legs swinging wide
And high around
Her pick's hips.
Her smile

His smirk
And wink to his mates
Behind her back

And when Norrie Paramor
And his orchestra
Slid into the slow smooch that closed the show
Before the Anthem dash for the door

Brenda came over
And pressed up to him
Eyes closed
Lost in the music
As his hands roamed the taffeta.

They left arm in arm
I lurked behind
The fascinating fastening
Pimpling the back of her satin blouse
Should have been mine to fumble
After we had sneaked inside her house
Avoiding the floorboard that always squeaked
And swigged her dad's gin
Topping the bottle with water
Up to his red ink marker
And pressed together
Hot on the sofa

But she took the bus home, with him,
Rested her head on his shoulder.

I watched her over summers
Her belly swelling with child after child

Shop-worn
Trudging Poundland
Buggy lost under
Carrier bags
And kids

At school gates
Where our sons fought
Playground wars
Her eyes raw from tears
Or blackened tripping kerbs or down a stair

We never shared a word

Through the window
Of “Smell the Roses”
Buying a dutiful
Valentine's Day bouquet
For my fast estranging ‘trouble and strife'

Seeing Brenda standing
A pavement away
Eroded
Sad
And cold

‘Stuff the wife'

I handed Brenda the small bouquet
Watching from a distance as
She gently placed it in a bin
And walked away.

I retrieved it quick
Wiped it clean

The blooms brightened my room in their crystal vase
Over time the water greened
The slowly dying
Parchment petals
Drooped and fell onto
The stack of solicitor's letters
‘Pending' in the hearth.

The terminal ward
Smells of dettol and flowers - hers
And délicatesse of urine - mine.

Our grandchildren visit
I wish they wouldn't
They make too much noise
And brawl
I don't recall their names
Except for Tommy or is it Timmy?
They're all the same to me.

They finger the stents
Piercing the veins
Of our translucent
Parchment arms
And eventually,
Go home again

As nurses curtained Brenda's bed
I waved a final flutter
Perhaps she fluttered back
Maybe nodded her head.

A cleaner came
Later that day
Loaded on a trolley
Her vase of wallflowers
Slippers and Lucozade
And whisked all trace of Brenda
Away