Heirloom

The escalating drone
of a moped accelerating
some way off
stirs up silence and the night,
thickening the mix,
as the dated woollen curtains
come to rest
on a varnished windowsill:
coffee-brown, with dashed threads
of spicy orange peel, are they still here?
They’ll do for now, we said, on moving in
eight years ago.

Those curtains sealed into a tomb
each Saturday afternoon
of your childhood,
slim panes of blazing summer
dividing the semi-darkness, the vortices
ascending from dad's Old Holborn rolls-ups
as the anthem began for Grandstand
and we joined in boisterously,
returning then to a reverent hush
for the reading of
the line-up card for the 1.15 at Haydock,
bought off with shared offerings—
a bag of dolly mixtures,
peeled prawns in vinegar.

Examining those years
between
thumb and forefinger,
as with a length of worn fabric,
through machine-woven squares
you can still see
their smoky light
shine through.

Wed 9th Feb 2011