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Fire under footfall.Fire over skies.
Fire on a matchstick.Fire in my eyes.
Fire holding hunger.Fire seeking wood.
Fire hiding danger.Fire feeling good.
I like to stay upand listenwhen big people talkingjumbie stories
I does feelso tingly and excitedinside me
But when my mother say“Girl, time for bed”
A little bit of rice,a little bit of pea,on my platefor my tea.
A little bit of jam,a little bit of toast,in the morningswhen I love it most.
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.
How many books have you written?Have you been writing for years?Where do you get all the paper?Where do you get your ideas?
We goin' on a school trip today,De whole class goin' to Whitney Bay,Ah teckin' me ball an' bat with meTo play beach cricket, an' let me see,
My love is like a well-read bookwhich makes me smile each time I look.It shouts and whispers, roars and singsit grounds me and it gives me wings.
'On buses and trains you wouldn't believeThe crazy things that passengers leave:
A pair of crutches, I kid you not,Hot-waterbottle, full but no longer hot
A stranger called this morningDressed all in black and greyPut every sound into a bagAnd carried them away
This is the city:buildings, buses, trains and carsconcrete, metal, bricks and glasshouses, lights and cinemasshops and offices and barsthis is where the people are.