A Sunday joint

A Sunday joint

Wrapped in brown paper

Tied up with string

Carried from the butchers

On a Saturday afternoon

With enough meat

Left over

For Monday

Sixpence for going

Saved up

In a coronation crown

Money box

Some of it was spent

On the Saturday

Morning pictures

Lucky dips

And sherbet dabs

The Naylor boys

Spent money on

Two cigarettes

In a paper bag

I only ever had

One nervous drag

It made me heave

I waited ten years

For another

It was a sad day

For my mother

But she got over it

Eventually

About the time of my

Masters degree

Small town boy made good

I would go back

If I could...

The string

Dug into my fingers

Unravelling

Blood would seep out

Onto the pavement

Leaving a trail

Which followed me

All the way home

It left a mark on the floor

By the door

Thankfully it always came out

With a little water

Baking soda

And white vinegar

Not all stains do.

Monday May the 4th.

I love you Kora.

Every morning is like the first one without you.

Back from the dead

Spirits fly high

At low tide

When the air smells

Of sulphur

As seaweed dries

Scrambled eggs are not

On the menu

Stomachs turn

On the promise of a memory

Mangroves hang in mist

A twist of tailfeathers

A shapeless wraith

Transformed

A Kingfisher

Bursting into sunbeam

A flash of colour

In a pot of glue

Bold Cuckoos call

For rain

To wash away the misery

Of humidity

The suffocation

Of air, heavy

With a sorrow

Of sea fog

A deceitful tide turning its back

On the bullfrog

Dreams are tossed

Back and forth

In the ebb and flow

And spirits, laid low

Fly high