Open the door to a dancing girl
in a polka-dot dress in Notting Hill,
on a blood-sloshed street, where race riots swell.
A sticky rock, with ‘Londoner’ written through
despite forty years with a different crew
of Welsh adoptees. Around the rock
a hospital bangle with a baby’s grip,
a first shoe, a mousy lock.
A puff of clove-scented smoke crackling holes
in a father’s tweedy gaze.
A vial of Spetses sea sparkling
in an ouzo haze , its azure light warding off
the evil eye. A snatch of Atlantic sky sweeping
cross a caravan floor, musty, cramped,
perfect holidays for a family of four.
A painting of roots, a husband’s smile,
a wedding ring, a
home-made birthday card,
A space
made ready for the final objet d’art-
a mother’s urn, green and red, a ceramic hip-
long past it’s wear-by date.
Janet Daniel
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