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| You took me back, once, to see the tall, dreary buildings grown smug in a suddenly fashionable part of London. White paint and window boxes silently disapproved and pointed to the 'private' sign, not wanting to be disturbed by children hand in hand walking out of years ago. The cobbler on the corner was gone. A grumpy man who never spoke and smelled of leather and polish and skills that required no machinery. The one-legged trombone player no longer swung down the high street on crutches, smiling and making music. A composite memory in your mind? Or a division in mine? Who know? Remember the kitchen without a lock through which strangers crept apologetically on their way to the lavatory at the end of the garden? The greedy pavement grill that trapped darkness into a room that was home underground? The betting shop next door? That had gone, too. Now in the early hours, after enough alcohol to joke a past that exists only between us, I lay my head against your shoulder. You hold me tight and we say nothing. |
Brother and Sister |
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