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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
I know you don't get it
the pleasure I feel
when I push down the pedal
the turn of the wheel
the buzz of the sander
the whirl of the drill
Kicking the pebbles along Eastbourne beach
as the orange-pink of sunset
plays with the ebbing tide,
my mother asks…
I was born with a map of Australia on my face;it was beautiful, my mother told me – there was nobody like me in the whole wide worldwho could trace the edges of down under
This is my story.It is mine alone because I am the one who needsto tell it.I am the one who is still here,no longer stage right but
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.The hall is worried about the loose banister.
We used to play on the sidewalk,
brandishing long sticks as lightsabers,
caning one another and
really feeling the force of it.
Then Ed got a real lightsabre,