what is it?

how will they know for thinking
comes silent inside our heads
unless we utter

think of you, who made it special

and we leaped with the preparations, little folk.

he came round the back of the house, my beautiful

the coal house next to the toilet by our back door

once he fell and mother brought him in and his hands went to the walls and surfaces for support, making marks

i

fancy mother made him tea, with sugar

we moved house not so beautiful, my beautiful

upstairs, it was carried upstairs by the front door prepared with newspaper wads to stop the dust and me parked behind to count the bags.

always correct, failing the story of short loads and money on the side

now my beautiful, is delivered to the bunker outside and the delivery note put through the letter box for me

beautiful house for me yet

one never forgot the first

my beautiful.

varying kinds
and ages

it dries and cracks if not stored with care

biscuit tins are useful

becomes larger as time moves on.
it started early, with greek poetry,
the radio, which played all day.

maybe

is was dark blue with a little red added

lasted two weeks and still prominent.

much has happened since

the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.
while gavin bryars plays
on and on
repeated.

look at each gentle place,
to keep in a pocket
of love,for that rainy
day, you do not go.