snit my house

snit my house 

in a mind that still wanders

through the rooms of my childhood,

even under the stairs of the coal store

that housed the house.

in that stone terraced cottage,

that “slum dwelling” 

in the words of a council report.

the kitchen, the back kitchen, the scullery.

my cold watered, no heating childhood

of the bath in front of the coal fire, filled

from the gas boiler in the scullery.

that warm-radioed room where the bath

sat on the mat of my infant reader,

and where a warm-towelled mum sought 

no tide marks, god forbid!

where friday night was armarmi night.

how the coal-gritted mat annoyed,

and the gravel-warted soap grated.

even the ducks three on the wallpapered

sky, flew in a halted dawn.

where the mantled clock chimed of

westminster and the fire died down the days, 

above the wood-panelled lower walls,

where the black pads hid their midnight feast.

tip toe through the rooms of my childhood.

the hush china parlour, antimacassar armchairs,

thick curtains and no air. no room at all really.

along the archeological passage of gloomy fuse boxes 

a red runner rug and a light switch. 

and the green door. always green on the outside

cream on the inside. a four leafed clover.

no air in the sarcophagus. a gold mask on

the sideboard dining room filled by a table and chairs;

and the watching coal fire. a seance of sitting

between the draft of the stairs and the branding iron.

the rented television saying nothing,

nothing about the rooms of my childhood.

upstairs slept in a sunbeam of dust.

downstairs crept a day older

as the ghosts of mum, dad and child

waltzed beyond 

the rooms that grew smaller and smaller

with my childhood.

the dot on the television screen

faded

the end of the days.