BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE WHIRLOWDALE

for JA

Peter's son is an eminent eye surgeon
who drives an Aston Martin. Peter is dead
and his house is for sale. I have only ever seen
the Aston Martin once. A taxi is parked
outside Peter's house. Gypsies have taken
lampstands and stud partition walls
out of Peter's house. Decent curtains
have gone up. Douglas says, looks like
we are getting more of our coloured brethren.
The woman from next door but two
who is older than she dresses;
I don't know how young she is,
trundles down, any news? Big Toj has reckoned
there must be a large family. Next door says,
as long as they don't play drums or build
an extension. They go back to their newspaper.
Last week we ate a disappointing Duchy Original
chicken and tarragon soup. Prince Charles.

THE NEW PLACE

for TH

The new place is still an unpacked pile
of boxes, crockery lying in wait
wrapped in newspaper, a brown file
of tenancy agreements and contracts
that are signed and dated. The white
walls are uncluttered by jam-sticky hands
or crayons that count the kids' heights
in months, January — March — December.
The year opens like a front door
to a garden of blossoming flowers,
the roses uncurling like cats,
blown dandelion clocks exploding the air,
filling the bedrooms with fairies.
Nell, bouncing on bedsprings, captures a wish.