Stefan Wilde

Pungency,where old cats territorialize the slinking alley

perched atop the crumbling walls,

staring nonchalantly at funereal aspidistra

middle-set on foodless green baized tablecloth.

Where the blue bottled sunlight,

heatedly exaggerates the cat piss smell,

burning bright upon,but less behind,

the filth dimmed window.

The gaudy skin of paint over dead wooden window frame

fools no one,

but cheers up ,with its brightness.

'Needy' clutter,clutters the stone flagged back yard,

gives the old man,glimpsing out

a sense of poor wealth,overcome by happy memories.

Two striped, metal framed deckchairs

virtually rusted into the brickwork,

reminds him of when Blackpool postcards sent,

impressed the neighbours.

Handmade wooden step ladders

each step worn thin by countless ascensions

up to whitewashed ceilings

and dusty high pantry shelfs(shelves)

The now stiffened mangle

that squeezed many a working shirt almost dry.

Though always faithful transport for every work day

the Sturmey-Archer,his iron workhorse

leaning, succombed to a  corrosive death.

His look lingers on the old tin bath

precariously suspended by a weakening nail,

brings to mind the frothy hot water gallons

it held in,each Friday night,

before the fireplace,after a mucky factory week

rotted ironically,by water.

Spring delivered weeds edge the small coal pile

he hopes will be little used,in these warmer days.

 His eyes move lastly,to the empty washing line

daily bedecked in the past, like  multi-coloured sails of a ship

cracking and bellying in the wind, with clothes  lovingly hung.

Home-loving hands and heart,

no longer to be seen in the yard.