Penryn

A shopping trolley collects rust on the mudflats.

It is strange that I am passing by shipyards

as I hear that the warehouse where you painted

is being pulled down.

I think at once of the dirtiness of the red carpet.

How the damp tasted on your clothes and skin.

Of the one eyed doll you’d placed upon the bookcase.

How I waited for you in the thunderous rain.

I have not thought for years of

the rotting paint flaked doors which opened down to the river.

Or the night we watched the carpet factory on fire.

Sweet tea at 3 a.m. and the whole place ablaze.

The flame’s reflection in the water,

those echoed cracks of falling wood and

the next day, the pictures in the paper.

It’s sudden metal shell in the morning light.

The impermanence of it all.

Written by Tess Gardener - All rights remain with the author