in a pub 100 years ago

a gown of snow

the river drowned by light

a moon behind fists

the essential

darkness of snow

falls into open wound

as someone insists they saw a horse play the piano

in a pub 100 years ago

falls into opening wound

“George Osborne, god of love, we have spurned beauty” (Sean Bonney)

my Gran would gossip with her friends out shopping

remembering the war the terrace house next door in Bangalore Street

destroyed in a night raid my Gran

had a premonition and took herself and Mum

to stay with relatives the day before an entire family killed

twins 5 years old / bizarrely an

upright piano

out on the street un

damaged Gran’s house an open wound to the sky

ribbons of wallpaper scar tissue

it’s early morning there’s frost on the ground

the shrubbery crackles telephone wires whisper into the grey

now it is become impossible to tell ghosts from

their echoes / S stands at the wide

open window blasts of frozen air and naked

and curls beside me in the bed

and we drink some whisky fire-burn russet /

in her coat of olive green stepping out of the lift and me

watching her slender back

and upright stance disappear

being categorised

as the undead dead in the future in the weird places

outside the city outside the town

fencing and land of notices patrolled

by dogs / private /

privation / a creature

drinking from an icy puddle

h(a)unted by hounds / inside the city

inside the town; tinfoil clouds and weep for the cameras

... and it took several minutes to adjust to the interior’s gloom