Acomb Crescent

I was daydreaming in the sweating bungalow
lulled by tea, cake and well-worn anecdotes
miniscule excavations of the mineralised past

the hothouse was incubating the faces of relatives
in rectangular plots covering every spare surface

as my Grandma’s words tapped gently on my skull
I went deeper still into my reverie
shuffling antecedents until
startled by the insectoid clicks of a multitude of shutters
I witnessed the scene
through the compound vision of those who stared from the frames

the disintegrating map of the family
the family’s eyes
the last surviving sister holding forth to a toby jug and her static kin
in a house without a coal scuttle

and then it was just me sat in the room
92 years old
waiting for guests to arrive

2 thoughts on “Acomb Crescent

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