Hanging by the post box red front door
Since 71
A long trench coat, shade of green
With flat cap on top, peak smudged
From fingers that had gripped
Pulled it from a head,
Both, an umbra of post war world gloom
To the boy, now the man who looks at it
Memories contained within its pockets and creases
Of boiled sweets handed to his bairns
Of neatly folded plastic bags,
For the necessary emergencies
He was so convinced he’d meet
Of hands that belonged to the coat,
Strong, firm that tousled this man’s hair,
Yet gentle and playful, full of fun
Of the head that wore the cap, the grin,
The mischievous glint, when his Peg wasn’t looking
As he slipped some coins into this boy’s tiny hand
Stories told, of times before the war,
Of stopping trams, driving pigs through N’castle
As a butcher’s Boy, on slaughter day
Of the day he met his Meg, down by the coast
Of showing off, and coming a cropper
And oh, how his Meg laughed
A coat holding so much of the past,
Of shipbuilding by the dark, ***** Tyne,
Boats that loomed over the houses
Taking this boy to see them launch
Dreaming of exotic, oriental places
He would never visit
Of betting slips, crumpled in pockets
From long gone nags, who caught his eye
Torn envelopes with Megs writing,
Bread - brown, tin of carnation milk (small)
Rich tea, sultanas, flour – plain
A use for his plastic bags,

I'm looking for a jacket.
To save me from the cold.

It doesn't have to be bold,
I just don't want to be cold.

The cold is creeping inside me.
I miss what I used to be.

It bites at my skin.
I can't let it win.

Will you be my coat?

Can you save me from this cold?

Delightfully force thyself to a cheap coat
Frayed winter shelter
Sworn fre-nemy of millennial style
Who kills itself in gale
While the master keeps cozy within your skin
Wonder if you’ll ever be so disloyal to dare ask for a bath
Then, in irony,
Loved and wanted by the living freezed
And the envy of the proletarian blanket
, shining in its absence-Your presence.
Under the carless hands of the master
Buttons drop and thread spills as solid blood
Doomed to fulfill the unchosen goal
Depletion will not be salvation
Just a mute shriek
living decomposition
Hope thy ist warm.

If my life were a painting,
It would be of the night.
Of rain on pavements,
Reflecting street lights.
And sat on a bench,
shadowed and dark,
Would be a boy in a coat,
Too big and covered in marks.

But life isn't painting,
But a series of stills,
And if you wind the reel forward,
The boy grows, the coat he fills.
And now, another figure joins him,
Pulls him off the bench, to his feet,
And now, they start dancing,
In each other's arms, down the street.

Drenched in rain,
He takes off his coat,
Wraps it around her,
And pulls out a ring and a note.
With a tear of joy, she nods,
With a nervous laugh, he stands,
The sun starts to rise,
As they hold each other's hands.

Then, just a frame or two on,
A small figure runs up to the pair,
And the boy - now a man,
Lifts the child in the air.
Smiling, he holds his wife and child close,
And wipes the rain from their faces,
As the sun is overhead,
And light shines onto their embraces.

And so a new painting forms,
Brighter, now the sun's above,
And the coat around her shoulders,
Reminds her of his love.

What I know is that rain will fall
Some days when I don't have time to grab a coat.
But I get to decide that your arms are warmer
Anyway.

She grabbed the coattails of his jacket,
Begging her daddy not to leave.
He shrugged the wool garment off,
And bending to his knees:
"Darling, don't cry,
You keep this for me--
God knows you will need it
More than I will need."
Again he turns to leave,
This time clad in green;
"Daddy, I will keep a promise
If you promise me to:
Stay safe and come home--
I will return this coat to you."
He paused, turned, and smiled,
And kissed her little head,
Later swept away for a call to be answered.
But he never returned again.
He tried so hard to keep his promise
To his little girl,
But now twenty years have gone pass:
She still holds on to the wool coat.
And his jacket keeps her warm,
And his jacket dries her tears,
Just like her daddy wanted to.

We mutter uncertainty under our breaths as the clouds float by, dragging the autumn into its arms. Have you ever stood in the rain with a heavy coat draped over your heady head?