The view from Alun 201
Lamp. Black. Debutant Plaths, Larkin’s and Audens alike.
One stops to appreciate my eye. Tree. Leaves.
Like Children’s hands reaching towards me. Averted eye.
Old mortar stares me down. Its ancient lines cry wisdom.
There’s nothing funnier than its misery.
To its left, a seemingly gross tumescence.
Engorged Mortar Member. Why no one cringes is beyond me.
Victorian lamp. False garden. How the two are
Forced together fascinate me. No one else – just me.
The Children’s hands reach out. They are my hands.
No wonder, I’m home.