Chandos Street
Fish and chip papers
abandoned down
salt and vinegar pavements
wrapped around lamp posts
and the old ladies ankles.
Her shopping basket is full
of cat food.
She stops to talk under the maypole telegraph wires to the hop scotch
children about the black cat and the
dancing dragonfly
The old lady slowly walks up the street past the sweet shop two doors
down from No9 at half past eight and
three doors down from No96 at nine o'clock.
Half an hour passes in the street.
Looking down the terraced row
gardens growing flowers and nettles
full of pride and full of children's cries.
Clay chimney pots bake in the sun
without fires and I spy a
black wing pirate above the starling eaves.
Passing strangers take curiosity glances through front parlour piano rooms flamed aspidistra forests on marble fire places, dark rooms
with lampshade bookshelves in cosy corners.
The traffic moves up and down the
street at irregular intervals familiar
street cars some with warm bonnets
for cats come and go from territorial parking spaces.
Mrs. Evans is on her hands and knee's polishing the red doorstep full of exotic palms
pram wheels, hats and walking sticks.
By the time the yellow bus stops and moves away at the end of the street,the old lady is gone.
Avie.
