Janice Windle
Warning, says the sign - dog
bites first, asks questions later
but now the cat rules OK,
runs ahead through the green barn door
into Dad's home within a home.
A horizontal rainbow of a hundred screwdrivers,
wait to serve, pliers perched above like birds
and Father's scythe, by Time forgotten,
broods high up on a rafter.
A blue sea of plastic washes up
against a contour map of rusted metal sheeting.
A kitchen chair hovers like a satellite
over a mound of memories and hopes,
old dark wardrobes, doors closed on empty spaces
or filled with mini-skirts and kipper ties,
a vaccuum flask remembering
picnics in the Hollow,
bikes, his, hers and Baby's
waiting for Goldilocks to take them for a spin.
The vast space below the roof,
home to swallows in the spring,
and down here among the bric-a-brac and DIY
the mice must dodge the yellow eyes of Mag.
She's purring on Dad's chair
beside the iron stove, where
the TV's ready, poised like Dad
to witness Man. United's victory.
