Fracked bottle tops and the
cream missing

Metal ash can’s with warm
cinders smouldering

Bottoms burnt out of them
hand painted house numbers

Shield like lids with gladiator
attachments for sword fighting

And the bins, they had floppy
ear handles, Friday collections

That was because we were all
Catholics back then - offal y fish.

The black widow never came
out again after her husband died

Hid behind lace curtains sharing
her silhouette with shadows

Miss Webster she was called,
a woven witch with a wanting.

The coal-man’s horse stopped
and started without instruction

And nearly always managed to
do his droppings outside No: 30.

The houses were all tied to the
wooden poles on the street

Wires ran directly over footpaths
perfect for droppy downies.

I’m back, not a lot has changed
plastic bins cartons of milk

Miss Webster’s daughter has
taken up her mother post

Carbon monoxide is being
replaced with a charred coal

The only constant in life is
change which same disdains

I'm not mentally suited to
the monotony of Mallow

But there is at least a release
from it all, that is, I can forget!

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Mallow is a town in Ireland.