Poetry

A gloss white basin set in dark loam wood

With shiny taps that sparkle when they flow.

The walls, half-panelled, are not the colour of mud;

Mam made a cone

from newspaper and put sugar in it.

Then she’d give each of us a stick

of rhubarb, to dip.

We’re on the train that’s racing to the seaside for the day

I’ve got my towel and costume, my bucket and my spade

Outside I get a fleeting look at cows in fields of green

“Too whit my dear husband, please hurry, make haste

All three eggs have hatched, there is no time to waste.

The table is empty, not a bite in the house.

Why do you use me, abuse me so badly?

Screwing up paper and squashing it madly;

nestling the throwaway news in my innards.

I hear the clang of the bell and I see myself

running on cold concrete across the school playground,