Back to the City

BACK TO THE CITY


Sweet cigar smoke weaving through the crowd

at Ashton Gate on Boxing Day.

Drooping floodlights illuminate a muddy pitch.

I stand next to my father in winter coat,

always on the left side for his good ear.


Another time we are in the changing room at the North Baths,

the sound of children echoing from the high ceiling.

There is the reek of chlorine and I am undressed,

inadequately dried,

thinking of hot Bovril from the machine.


The houses on the hills look the same to me,

but they have been hollowed out

while my eyes were averted,

scoured and painted

to make homes for people I’ve never met.