The Street

I am like a rolling old coke can on a wind swept street, kicked around the gutter by the toes of their feet. I live in a wig-wam while they're in there palaces, the wheeling, dealing,

O

"Sophie, why don't you come over here and let me cuddle you?" "No, Mum. I'm not Sophie."

10th Feb 1999 Dear Abi

Some thing ties you still and you must guess, you feel a thread stretching, while it's there you are sealed in the past. He says box it put it near your feet tie it up with string, shout.

"What is it, May?" I asked. I could hear sobbing coming from the other end of the phone, which is why I asked.

This is my Mothers poem. She wrote this 30 years ago when she was 18 years old.I think its excellant, very true and touching.