no one
is looking, there is no one here. we are not afraid of
the night.

we spin.

coal and seed merchant at the top

by the turning before the fire

station

on the left going up

opposite where my brother worked on saturdays

in the fishmongers

both places had a particular aroma

you may just imagine

he brought home crab claws for tea and i did not like them

liked the seed merchant, allowed to feel and hold unlike the coal that too had names

nutty slack, briquettes and smokeless

while others remain unremembered

google reminds

&

late afternoon light beams the cabinet & mind wonders

think of granny and her ham tea with thick white fat and orange edging.

do not dignify the challenges. tread sweetly,
move on.

it is simply.
not worth fretting.

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.