There are days where we meet up To walk under cool crisp skies Made up of indigoes, lilacs and light crimsons Sunnier afternoons. Skimming to and fro The slates of English Street. The plains of Sprucefield Sprawling in front of us. Boulevards of Cookstown That stretch far and wide, skirted with shops Owned by unloved mannequins. We journey further In our red Nissan Silvia, with the roll-down windows With a pile of yellowed copies of the Beano in the back. Mine, of course. I like to read. You taught me to. Blur upon blur, we share whispers with each other The alphabet, songs. I can count to ten, on my own. I did it once In Marks & Spencer. Everyone was proud. Taking our bag of tricks with us, we sup from place to place Chicken nugget Happy Meals. Crumbs of a german biscuit. Half of a sausage roll at the Trian. Twilight falls, the blurs Become darker, curiouser. Soon I am home. The day is done.
There are other days where we meet up Under a slightly greyer tinge. I laugh I can’t change that, I tell you. The weather sometimes. Less skimming, less journeying. Sometimes I’ll say Remember that red Silvia? All the places we used to go? But there’s no answer. The whispers have gone.