17 Well Lane
There was a hedgerow of hawthorn and elder
and a drainage dyke we used to play in
and a towering horse chestnut tree.
We shared a drive with Mr Johnson
and I was terrified of his Labrador,
how it climbed up my back, mauled my doll.
I can see the house Elizabeth Scaife lived in
but not the tin bath in her kitchen
or the privy at the end of the garden.
My mum looked down on that terrace,
always called it ‘arky’. I can see now
it was nicer than our brash new one.
I want to cross the road, sit on that old wall
where Mr Davy used to come out to spit,
take off my shoes, feel the warmth of the pavement.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Carole Bromley would
be pleased to hear them.