Philip Beverley

The Race

It was a steep street
it was a wet street
it was a street you wouldn’t recognise
if you could see
                         if you were there
if you’d draped your coat
over your head and run

but it wasn’t you
                         I know who it was
shirt stuck to pre-pubescent chest
mocked by sons of world war 
heroes like you

                              it wasn’t you
ran short trousered, knee deep
in bouncing, muddy rain
to pay his mum a service
the last ordained service 
he could pay on this earth

too well I know
the knock, the wait
the agony of waiting
would she, would she ever
when she did how long
she took to dress and run
with me, back down that street

Not you old man, but I
the one who ran that night
to fetch the midwife,
                         to save your wife
and child
rain louder than any word you said
I ran that street both ways
                           my heart
and feet competing for my mum
for my sister as I found out later

too late
                            and you hero
beaten by the rain I raced

 

Philip Beverley has been scribbling for about 14 years and has been published on paper in- Moonstone, Bard Hair Day, Poet Tree, The Black Rose, Inclement, Carillon, Dawn Treader, Cake and Krax, along with a selection of e-zines. He runs a creative writing group in West Yorkshire and occasionally gives readings locally.

Philips work is featured in Elbow Room Volume Four