Any Old Jerusalem
On the laps of our beloved smoking mothers -
we heard them speak of how the world
was whilst they were young.
The festooned nights of war-torn bingo halls -
where everything was just about right and unjust
about wrong. Where no one owned a phone.
I can still see her on abandoned mornings -
alone and never giving inches to winter ghosts.
Cigarette in mouth. Eyes down. Enraged of England.