Poem by Elizabeth Bracken
those chill church halls of two bar fires
and icy toilets with high level flush,
their kitchens full of prohibitions
and cupboards packed with Beryl Ware,
countless cups and saucers in sea green.
who misses tea urns – ancient, modern, gushing out like spouting whales,
or hessian bags of bargain coffee jars?
Dark are the stage lights for the pantomime,
cheap glitterballs and temperamental strip light.
Faded the smell of celebration buffets –
chipolatas, mini quiches, spicy chicken wings.
Silent the dusty out of tune piano, the keep fit beat,
a birthday DJs patter, meditation tapes,
loud clapping from the slimming club
and women’s voices over washing up