moving story

 

on move-out day

mum found a photograph,

dad, me, and baby Cissie

at the Dove Row, Hackney

Coronation party

 

(Cissie died of scarlet fever, shortly after) 

 

as she turned to lock the door

dad whispered,

‘there’s no point, ma, nothing left to nick no more’  

 

mum sighed, agreed

and went inside to breathe

the theft-proof mist of memories

 

returning with a jigsaw (framed)

of ‘Trooping the Colour’

and a newly vacant birdcage,

‘ain’t leaving these for bastard looters’  

 

cage in one hand,

Queen in the other,

mum rode, Boadicea proud,

atop our Watney's Brewery dray

 

dad broke wind and blamed the horse

waved two fingers at the neighbours

left behind (for now) and shouted,

‘see you later, alligators’

 

open doors revealed the naked shame

of Yorkie stoves in need of blacking,

tobacco-stain puppy-dog wallpaper,

and incontinents' rancid bedding

 

window panes that once displayed

aspidistras in need of dusting

and crisp lace curtains (yellowing)

shattered under salvoes of yahoos' half-bricks

 

our brand new tenth-floor council flat

was clean, bright and airy,

on a clear day we could see the river…

nearly  

 

the council built a playground

on the site of the local

where, Saturday nights,

mum played tunes on the ‘old joanna’

and dad sang, “you are my heart’s delight,”

in half-cut lounge bar Tauber tenor

 

it’s overrun with druggies and dealers  

 

mum and dad stayed in,

drinking off-sales Mackeson

holding hands on the settee

watching Take Your Pick, Jukebox Jury,

singing the jingles – best things on telly;

 

“The Esso sign means happy motoring”

"Murray Mints. Murray Mints. Too good to hurry Mints"

“You'll wonder where the yellow went...”  

 

mum never got over dad dying –

Christmas morning

choking on a tangerine

 

she blamed her arthritis,

‘I couldn’t do that Heinze Manoeuvre’  

 

‘mum, you’ve got your pension, dad's insurance,

you're free to do what you bloody well like

fancy a weekend trip down Margate?’

 

‘do what I like? Margate? free?

all I want’s Dove Row back,

me own front door

family round for Sunday dinner

and a canary bird what sings’

 

‘bye mum, gissa kiss’

I left her forcing  

the child-proof top

of repeat prescription Mogadon

 

humming, ‘Beanz Meanz Heinz’

under the gaze of the Queen,

 

still trooping.