Chandos Street

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.