Historic Streets and Buildings

Where is this old and picturesque spot, you might wonder? York? Chester? Ancient black and white buildings, winding hilly streets and blue explanatory plaques by steeply stepped old pathways climbing up suggest a popular tourist destination. Is it? No. It's humble Stockport, hiding its bits of remaining finery behind the modern blanks flanking Merseyway and the main shopping arcade, where there is an Asda like an Aztec monolith in red brick, its immensity forbiddingly incomprehensible. It's always worth a bit of a wander behind the scenes in places, I think, because you never know what you might find there.

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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.