The Meringue and Red-Brick Bordered House

Where the lavender bushes served bees out front,
and an ancient holly tree slain in July ’73,
where white gloss banisters gave agency to four girls,
where a lady sunned herself chestnut with Ambre Solaire
and a golden retriever barked herself hoarse,
where on the centrepiece parquet floor
a woman and girl fox-trotted to the Glenn Miller Band,
where a deep square ceramic sink held an offal bloodbath
and the business as usual hum of the deep freeze,
and the toiling thrashing of a washing machine, held sway.

Where upstairs in a small room Deep Purple, Pink Floyd
and Led Zeppelin played for a boy and his sister,
where at the back a woman howled and a man's fist glowered,
where meaning for two girls was found in Abba and Queen
and one lost herself in fiction on the window seat
to the witness of the windows of the big house opposite,
where there was inexplicable blood loss in the toilet,
where a man's bowels evacuated volubly,
where a teenage girl collapsed, amidst pills like confetti,
where my inner map was sketched, and my unravelling began.

Talking Heads and Me at Twenty Three

Pig tailed, she climbs Gypsy Hill in clownish spots,
stripes, pink DM’s and jeans as cut-off as she is.
Murder could happen across the street and she’d
not notice. All she lets in is the copied cassette
playing through her Walkman. Even the sun jars.

‘Stop Making Sense’ is her soundtrack, her mantra,
the only music she can tolerate that gives reprieve to
the hold grief has about her throat, broken otherwise
only by hysterical laughter or unstaunchable tears.
Especially dear is track two: ‘Heaven’: the place

where nothing ever happens: its meaning unfixed,
ricocheting between a retrospective paint job
and the reality that something did happen: her house
of cards collapsing over and over. She accompanies
David Byrne through a party that everyone arrives

at and leaves simultaneously, blind to the fact that
someone is out of step: Mummy Jo - has left the party
and the stranger at the bar who she brushes by
every week on the hill- Love, will not be met
‘til she’s twice her age, and given up on Heaven.

Hard-Wired

Because of your
milky sugarloaf scent
that I want to breathe
two hundred times a day,
because of your weight and mass
as appealing to carry as a you-shaped
new-baked fruit cake,
because of your
rose petal skin
as alive as proving dough,
because of the ten wax opals
at your diminutive finger ends,
because of your arabesque form
and your rosy parabolic perfection,
because little tadpole I waited so long
that your first smile nearly broke me
because to massage your soft roll limbs
and watch you drop off like a cat akimbo,
because to hold you my fledgling, so perfectly close
so soft and inseparable in our monkey love,
because my little bundle of derring-do
my sweetpea, my bunnynose
my chickadee, my gosling
my yearling, my piglet
my owlet, my cheeper
my eaglet

nothing else
can hold a candle.

Some of my Favourite Things

An apparently small and perfect
red patent clutch bag from the 60s
jam-packed with silky pockets and
3D glasses never looked through.

A commemorative Queen figurine
in a bell-shaped farthingale
with a coin slot pelvis. Hollow
but for what you put in her.

A large orange armadillo
I found behind the rose bushes
who stretches out liquid
as a cat when I stroke him.

A black pelican who sits aside
me on ships’ decks and catches
in his pouched bill anything
of me the waves’ swell dislodges.

The quiet leafy lagoon I swim
with a family of three boys:
the only debris a flat pack
skeleton glowing at the bottom.