Any book with a broken spine
or turned down page – my brother’s
childhood painting of a duck
glue-walking pencil groves.
A gliding kestrel, Kipling,
meadows, sewing thread –
the Pyrex dish Mum never
quite got clean with wire wool.
Unperforated toilet paper,
flimsy stuff Dad hated in Madrid.
Cathedral finials – his metal box
that speaks of manliness.
Exotic shades of blue or pink
that only sisters wear.
A silver coffee spoon bent round
to make a favourite ring.
Self-service petrol pumps
the Ex refused to patronise,
tweed caps on younger men,
the smell of fresh sawn wood.
These fossil eggs nest in my heart
since last time we were family.
You need this word.
In fact, the chances are
you use it when your belly
is too big for distant socks.
You’ll use it even more
when armchairs snuggle
closer to the carpet,
or when wayside cairns
become the best part
of a mountain.
with gratitude and small
a bit of an erouff.
She’s ticked an allergy to feathers
so keep her well away from angels.
Gets hay fever in eternal sunshine,
put her on the dark side of the moon.
And kill the sound track, this one’s
painfully tone deaf. No golden harp
in case she wraps it round your neck.
Replace the mist with painted clouds,
we mustn’t give her athletes foot,
uneven ground upsets her knees.
Last column ticked. She’s no objection
to the Pearly Gates in principle,
likes barriers to keep the riff raff out.
Kathy Gee lives in Worcestershire and has a parallel life working for museums and heritage. She has been published in Acumen, Obsessed with Pipework and The Interpreter’s House among many others.