At this time of my life
I find myself wearing hats…
I’m not happy with my head you see,
In short, being able to see it
it just doesn’t thrill me.
Not through those depressing, disappearing strands.
So it’s that time - It’s hat time!

Hats are warm, comforting things;
take it off and, for a while at least,
it feels still there - a phantom hat.
Not quite as spooky or worrying
as a phantom arm or leg - after that
severed limb thing, but right there!
It really is that time - It’s hat time!

My Grandma Lamplough,
that’s on my mother’s side,
was an avid knitter of things to order,
She was even a freelancer for Jaeger…
matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers
But in later days mostly just tea cosies.
If there was no immediate customer in mind…
“Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all”
she would say… and anyway,
commissions were rare for cosies back in the day

She’d wear it boldly herself
with handle and spout slots front & back, proud
She’d start the next one and announce
to every visitor right out loud…
”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your ***?
Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot!
But then he showed up every day!
A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today!

Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig
or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig ….
I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret,
news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate
and avoid the comb over till a later date.
Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?

Bells chime, ding ****.
Cue the long run.

Rumbling empty belly
of a concrete anthill.

The same faces, same routines
same air, same space to fill.

Run, children, run!
Two hundred green pullovers

move in unison.
And the beautiful ones detach themselves

with heavy lungs
they inhale the fresh air

stamp out rollie butts.
Nobody cares.

Eat, sleep, bleat.
Two hundred green and grey sheep.

Day in, day out.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.

summer pendulums
in pink from
pints of rainbows

scuttles, yellow, drop
fine strands of
honey in bins

transits of ochre
dead spill
wads like corn

hot and popped
in a bucket

brush loaded wet
recovers wall
shimmered wet

erratic and fast
ivy pullovers
race crazy leaves

volumes of cloth
wrap neutered
the wildest cotton

print detail
in Paisley
or frond

birds brown have
red berries as
cheeks

radiance picked
bright
in late autumn light

on our colour street.

Mothers pride loaf carved by hands lost in days of spam teas and stewed fruit puddings,
Hands so tired they now rest idly.

Patterns for grand pullovers poured over as children grow and set off for school,
Discarded under word search puzzles.

Heels tapped on bus steps as she climbed aboard the Bath bus and children’s hands held tight,
Grown now they drive to her side.

At her window she waves watching family leave for cars and journeys home,
One last goodbye and sleep comes.

This light,
amber edge of autumn,
kisses souls to forget
the once welcomed lethargic sweats of summer
and gently chides us to remember

woollen pullovers and happiness
in sharp cold breaths intaken,
exhaled as a fake sophisticate
puffing on a glamorous cigarette

As the year begins its sleep
our senses wake
to ask questions in the dark

The last day I saw you, it was snowing
It was snowing in the middle of March,
which was weird
But even weirder, I was sitting at your table
The cool kid's table
All of your friends looked at me like I was a freak of nature
But I was your freak
They saw us laughing and cracking jokes,
but mostly staying silent
and they left us alone

I wonder if I'll ever forget that day
I've already forgotten the way you dressed
or whether or not you were wearing your glasses
But I remember the snow,
cold and silent as us
Falling down outside
It was still there when I woke up at three o'clock in the morning
to your breathing
To the fact that you were still laying next to me

I remember now,
your red and black sweater
I never got why people call those things sweaters
I always called them sweatshirts, or pullovers
But you'd assuredly call it a sweater
Just like I know you'd always baby talk your dogs
and chase after Emmett in your backyard
and dream of smoking ****
in your unattached garage
I'll never know why you picked me
Why you chose to stick around
When you could've easily left
Maybe it was my perseverance,
If you could call it that
I could never let you get away
I never wanted you away from me

Maybe I'll forget this all someday
When I'm older and greyer
But not quite grey
Living with the one I called my soulmate
The person I chose to believe
was meant for me
Funny, how I still keep thinking about that person as you
when the conversation never flows quite right
how we can't be left alone together
in an empty room
There'd be no fear of passion
We are as lifeless as fallen stilts
The abandoned remnants of some government project
But for now I'll say that I'll always think of you
And I will think of you
Your hair and your stupid smile
Everchanging but always signaturely you
I guess I'll miss the few moments where I felt at home with you
at peace with you
Because after this quarantine is over,
nothing will be the same