19. Sep, 2022

'Bricks And Mortar'

They define place for me
And time, of course.
The sooty gold of sandstone
Squared off with thick white mortar,
Soft in the sun,
Stalwart in wind and rain,
Is Halifax, West Yorkshire,
Where I was raised.
Brick, rose pink, aged,
Mellowed, cottage-like,
Even in the streets of Hull
When we reached it after the quiet of villages
We drove through to get there,
Was East Yorkshire,
Where grandparents lived and we visited.
Sandstone houses and millstone grit walls
Are bookended by the bricks of Hull
And later of Manchester where, adult,
I still am.
Lancashire brick is machine-tool strong,
Industrial red from the local clay pits
And fired into solid oblong lozenges,
Row upon row of them
Built in the age of the train.
It is only after we have moved in
To our terraced street cul-de-sac
That I realise what drew me
To this house at once and
The familiarity of it.
From the front, it is very like
137 Lomond Road,
The comfort zone of Grandma and Grandad
And day-trips to Brid,
The first place I knew like this.
So the simple symmetry of brick, stone, brick
Forms the framework of family,
Made from the houses where we've lived.

Ruth Enright

Overview

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And my own ted must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds,

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.