Poetry

Sweets and Things; Gybe-point

Sweets and Things   You mention sherbet lemons, and we’re time-shaken back to their sugary tart acidy smell, fountain-fizzes and swizzlers ghastly-blackened blackjack teeth. You get on to your churchyard tale—firemen twice to the fire-crackered tree— so I lob in my dodgy dens dances plays rafts songs— pride in a hand-made pirate flag. Marbles, we agree! Real ones— glass— and skived-off games first fag puffs, abandoned organ failed piano—the gut-thrill of bikes, ingenious uses for pocket knives— the dark hovers around still but with shifty eyes.       Gybe-point   When I hear he’s dying— I ignore all strictures…

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