Jan 2020
what to tell you?
as snow falls, small birds shelter
i look at the photographs at my table, the second hand ticks round
should I speak of childhood
or of my family some gone now, while others grow
to write of my interests, my collections
to start
at the beginning
they tell me i was born at home on a sunday
early days
raining days, the pram hood smelled. gabardine.
blue white edging patterned greek style.
sound of water falling, puddled apron,
bread in damp paper, taste of crust corner.
springy, bouncing down green road, my brother
weighting. the other end.
a blanket to pick fluff
&
straps to bind me.
later came other fragments, the whisper of sausages for tea, the promise of marmite,
fragile gas mantles to replace night time candles.
my brothers
three brothers, two born before the war, one born after
i do not remember the war, also born after
the youngest. we all lived together until my father left: I was four &
remember his leaving; he took the radio , a large thing
he carried it high on his shoulder like a trophy
dad came back once, i saw him through the window bringing a doll for me
mother gave it to the girl next door.
early days
as I write this simply, I am aware of that which is remaining unsaid
i feel I was a quiet thing, bit of a mouse really. i am stronger now
since those times I find I have both a half brother and sister, yet do not know them
i was mostly happy, unaware of the undercurrents in life
i enjoyed being alone and still do
two of my brothers were kind, although I did not understand some of their behaviours
with hindsight and education I may do so
at seven, I went to live with the first foster parent.
this changed everything a while. the first of several care situations.
mother was ill
listen to what i do not tell
listen to what i do not tell
you
my brothers
did i tell you
that i walked down the road he lived
some time with his sister
hoping to be seen, recognised & cared for.
my father
later
said he was there if i needed him.
he was not.
.
small birds shelter.
small birds get broken to bits.
as snow falls, small birds shelter
i look at the photographs at my table, the second hand ticks round
should I speak of childhood
or of my family some gone now, while others grow
to write of my interests, my collections
to start
at the beginning
they tell me i was born at home on a sunday
early days
raining days, the pram hood smelled. gabardine.
blue white edging patterned greek style.
sound of water falling, puddled apron,
bread in damp paper, taste of crust corner.
springy, bouncing down green road, my brother
weighting. the other end.
a blanket to pick fluff
&
straps to bind me.
later came other fragments, the whisper of sausages for tea, the promise of marmite,
fragile gas mantles to replace night time candles.
my brothers
three brothers, two born before the war, one born after
i do not remember the war, also born after
the youngest. we all lived together until my father left: I was four &
remember his leaving; he took the radio , a large thing
he carried it high on his shoulder like a trophy
dad came back once, i saw him through the window bringing a doll for me
mother gave it to the girl next door.
early days
as I write this simply, I am aware of that which is remaining unsaid
i feel I was a quiet thing, bit of a mouse really. i am stronger now
since those times I find I have both a half brother and sister, yet do not know them
i was mostly happy, unaware of the undercurrents in life
i enjoyed being alone and still do
two of my brothers were kind, although I did not understand some of their behaviours
with hindsight and education I may do so
at seven, I went to live with the first foster parent.
this changed everything a while. the first of several care situations.
mother was ill
listen to what i do not tell
listen to what i do not tell
you
my brothers
did i tell you
that i walked down the road he lived
some time with his sister
hoping to be seen, recognised & cared for.
my father
later
said he was there if i needed him.
he was not.
.
small birds shelter.
small birds get broken to bits.
