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Poem

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.

Poem

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

Overheard in a Tower Block
Poem

Kicking the pebbles along Eastbourne beach

as the orange-pink of sunset

plays with the ebbing tide,

my mother asks…

 

Red Cherry Red
Poem

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

Poem

This is my story.
It is mine alone because I am the one who needs
to tell it.
I am the one who is still here,
no longer stage right but

Red Cherry Red
Poem

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.

Moonrise
Poem

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,