First, months

of flash, thud, shudder,

then the wailing...

                            Months,

that's half a young cat's life

Now we're up on the edge

and over, on the mountain

with mountains beyond. Behind us,

            in the dark

of the valley, villages are embers

Kicking the pebbles along Eastbourne beach

as the orange-pink of sunset

plays with the ebbing tide,

my mother asks…

Let's take a walk

around the park,

but please don't forget

that you have to bark.

No matter what you

want to say,

Just watch, think and bark,

okay?

Not many people in the park,

nobody near enough to hear me,

if I say a poem or two.

So I do.

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 world
who could trace the edges of down under

My Gran was a Caribbean lady
As Caribbean as could be
She came across to visit us
In Shoreham by the sea.

Here now skyline assembles fire.
The sun collects up to leave.
Its bright following paled,
suddenly all goes. Dusk rushes
in, like door closed on windowless room.

There is a place (believe me,

            she said) where if, if

                          you go beyond

the street lights, to the lane's end,

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.