where the ashes were
as white and grey as a lunar landscape
as accepted as the moonshine on the chapel roof
next to the orange pub
next to nothing but dark streets
cobbled in slag as shiny as blood under a street light
the goat boy a racing car
screeching around every corner
playward bounding past
the privet hedge where they stood
that row of five outside toilets
with oblong wooden seats worn bare
pans like upturned witches hats with
yesterdays newspapers behind the lead pipe
four leaf clover by the garden gate
as incongruous as a fairy tale
across station road the marsh
down to the joinery factory and the railway
and the ashes of course
throw down there where a stream gutters
and the mattresses grow blackberry bushes
butterflies everywhere flying away on time
where time was not a scene set in memory
not yet for the ashes still sneeze
and laugher is an express train
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