A dream, I’m home.

stumbling blind from room

to room

through the kitchen,

sprayed with a hint of

fried eggs and coffee

both burnt


I was right the milk



In the front room

cushions slump

like depressed

teenagers watching

dust, disturbed

float like plankton

before settling

and decaying

on the floor


the smell of

the new carpet.

The bathroom has a

micro-climate which is

killing the spider plant


fern already



The smell of


and sandelwood

are masked


meadow fresh


air freshner

do not use near a naked flame

The unused bedroom is the back of

a  charity shop,

all candlewick quilts

brass cats and

a Capodimonte

statue of a tramp

on a bench

old books,

aged pages dusted  by

Lily of the Valley talcum powder

Arthritic cracks split shoe leather

in the dark under

the bed

There are  traces of aftershave, old cigarettes

stale beer and the smell of sweat,

the sort

that thrives on

just being fucking



old trainers.

In unison,

I’m absorbed

by the bed

eyes tight shut

I can




Former Picture Editor, sometime photographer and poet. Now looking after Undercliffe Cemetery. A Grade 2* Listed Heritage Site. A Victorian jewel in Bradford, West Yorkshire.

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