sheltered in the fur of the
Celtic tiger, skins thrown over the
bare bones of the wild Atlantic
Way. My summer visits
home were warm, my tread
softened by busy hands.
I am a child of softer days,
resting on the feather bed made
by my mother, clean conditioned
hospital corners shaped in the
Victorian shade of all saints hospital.
NHS lino breaking the hungry brick
Of Dicken's workhouse.
I am a child of softer days,
cushioned by my mother's silence
from the broken glass of 1970s
England, shattered during three-day
weeks, bins caressed by ruptured
black bin bags, caressed by hungry
rats in ghost towns along the chalk-lined
borders.
Paddy was just my uncle's name.
I am a child of softer days,
the fall of October's ripened
fruits will bruise me.
Will cut my tongue.
I am a child of softer days.
