You mourn old photographs:
‘I was pretty then, and I never knew it.’
I’ve just filled an album
with our last pieces of paper
before digital took over:
It includes my mother’s 80th birthday
(she just missed out on 90).
A fabulous, tearful, joyous Sikh wedding,
dancing to the bhangra boy’s beat,
the marriage lasting little more
than a year. That holiday ...
Monday 27th January 2014 9:22 am
Bewitching, between-the-wars poster
celebrating dazzling, endless summers.
Picture it: bikinis, towels, diving board,
slide, illicit fags on concrete terraces,
seventies heatwave buses disgorging
shouting, truanting queues day after day.
Anyone would think we had a right to it.
The sun, I mean; and maybe, to play.
Taking a plunge so cold it made you gasp.
Tuesday 7th January 2014 12:37 pm
By Frank Jaye
You’ll get no Valentine from me; I’m not the type,
Pallid daffodils prematurely delivered – all that transatlantic hype.
I am not easy with love, be it concept, verb or noun,
My sentiments are more mundane and wear a plainer crown,
Embellished with affection, encouragement, respect not least,
You moderate my temper, rising still like yeast.
Saturday 4th January 2014 1:37 pm
Tags: Valentine poem