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I was never allowed to look in it. It was always locked; Though she would fiddle with its catches And rusty leather suitcase hinges. One day when she was out,
To feel my feet crunch on the gravel path, hands, brushing brambles and box-hedges. To knock on the dead leaf door; Hear: the sound of fox-knocker on wood. See the mice curtains twitch;
Cradling PG-Lapsang Souchong Staring through the sash window Up from glossy print cottages In a shoplifted 'Country Life' Lightning slits the Surrey skies And thunders over the hospital
We stared at a puddle in the road The frozen surface a coffin lid Not a cloud in the empty sky It was as if the day had hid Sapped of colour beneath the branches
Discarding the named books upon the desk I stare out at the littered figures on the field Then slumping down upon the swivel chair I spin And squint straight at the ghosting on the board