They say you should own change,
one of our few possessions,
having to pay for the past,
though changes never last.

It's said its as good as a rest,
but don't we fear some changes.
Who benefits is the test,
and who looses history erases.

So they're always taking away.
We're ren ting, repenting the present,
dissenting form changes and loss,
for loss is a change, as we pay.

'You're frowning', she said.
'It can't be that bad.
I switch thoughts, creating
plausible lies, hiding
protecting regrets.

Things done, never undone,
left to sink in the silt
of the best forgotten,
growing  into islands of debt.

Here they come to seek a symbol
of seaside sun - a cruise ship
castaway, beached,rain stained,
landlubbers hamock and griddle.

But first they collapse me and curse me.
Doing it properly should be
part of their curriculum vitae,
a test of nationality.

Then I'm candy flossed, ice creamed, Blackpool
rocked, salted and crisped, generally stuffed,
while they lie back, roast and relax.
Good job it's not a nudist beach.

My wife wears the sandals.
I never could. Must wear socks.
She says, No socks with sandals.
It's just not done! Sorry, don't
see myself with scented candles,
wispy beard smoking ***.
No disregards, it's just not my lot.

Chaotic cabinet of curios,
obsessive dreams unlocked her secret drawers.
Who was Sylvia, a poetic
slave to an idealized dead father?

Her suurogate father figure Ted
would never do. Her seven year
itch at last unstuck her glue, sent
her back to hom she hardly knew.

He arrived unexpected,
and unknown to me, excited
but uncertain. Returning home
demobbed, still salty from the sea.

But nothing like the pictures
on Grandpa's pack of Players.
No bushy beard,
a sad weary smile,
a warm embrace.

So this was a father - mine.
Would I grow up like him?
How would Mum be? No welcome
home for others from our street.

I love these old snickelways
and lanes in York, my second home.
This one's dark, damp, mysterious,
narrow single file uneven path,
cantilevered street lamp half way down,
sun setting at the far end.

A woman walks ahead, squeezing
through, blinding sunlit halo.
Difficult to distinguish. Not quite right.

'Can I help', I cry. She just moans
and shuffles on, head lolling,
curious scarf wrapped round her neck.

A postcard from the shop next door explains:
'Alice Smith lived here,
died in eighteen hundred and twenty-five.
Hanged for being mad.
Mad Alice Lane, York'.