POEM TITLE A Walk to Blackness
POEM Beyond the estate, past the wee church,
Through the dark wood, (that’s a new path surely),
we’re looking for childhood - Scouts, trips and picnics,
The Sunday School treat - in that calm quiet place,
Beside the grey water, beneath the grey sky.
Do we find it? Do we hang!
There’s a bang burst of colour,
Sweeter than orange,
Sharper than pink,
Deeper than peach,
Brighter than beige.
What would you call that?
Tip of my tongue . . .
Then we’re back. We’re wee.
Cos it’s Angel Delight doing butterscotch, int it?
It’s aye gimme a shrimp in my ten-pence mixture.
It’s dab up the dust in a prawn skips packet.
Goan. Wet your finger. Don’t waste it.
Or maybe it’s roses, a rainbow of roses,
Mixed like we used to for kiddy-on perfume,
In the summer, remember? In the garden. Mind?
On the days we played out, when we didn’t go walking.
Comments