Snow in Blaydon Dene
I don’t see Granda shining his boots, hear Granny clumping
down the stairs, just the path, graffiti sprayed LUVu.
On the diagonal the A1.
Sky broken-up ash grey to off-white, turning washed-out blue.
My mother and father are not Darby and Joaning,
Dad isn’t nodding agreement, mam isn’t looking
for something better.
I can’t see myself as a young man or middle-raged,
no broken-up images just snow clinging to trees
reminding me of the stamps we saved for the poor African babies
that turned-up at the edges.
Tom Kelly
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