Christmas 1948…. I have been thinking about writing this poem for years, one of the sharpest memories from my childhood. Finally, I sat down this week, and it leapt onto the page.
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Bright red tiles, arched around an open fireplace
ablaze with suspect fuel from the midnight coalman,
Diddley Sharman, with his tired white horse
that knew which house to stop at in the dark.
Just light from the fire and the crackle of comfort,
with both parents there, silent, — clockwork
the only sound, blue tin shaped as The Mallard
breaking records on the small round track
not quite level on the threadbare rug
that wore the shape of the room’s worn floor.
And I remember dancing then, me, their only child,
secure and three years into the rationed peace.
