7. Jan, 2017

Daily Bread

The town changes.
The Georgian colonnade no longer trades in wool.
The mills, with names like slaves,
Perseverance, and Hope,
Next clarioned their owners' greatness,
Spreading the news,
To mansions and philanthropic projects,
Proclaiming them guardians
Of their own, other people's,
And, hopefully, heavenly estates.

But in the end,
They are anonymous in death.
It is a school that is Crossley's, a park that is Savile.

Gladstone still glowers above Kingston Hall,
Outgazing to outrank the Constitutional Club opposite.
But underneath, only bathroom fittings
Jostle to congregate.

Down the street,
Where the sweet factory
Tossed you nosegays of melting caramels,
There's a Nafee's shop,
Piled with pyramids of Asian confection,
Bright as sugar mice.
Saris, not dresses, grow dusty
In the old shop windows.
The town changes,
But commerce continues.

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.