Lost in a Durham Landscape

I kicked my heels in the living room

while Aoife mulled wine in the kitchen

 

above the mantelpiece, a painting

(where a mirror ought to be)

drew me in.

 

a watchman is walking through a gate

pushing a rusted bike

 

behind him tumble-down allotments

ahead a row of cottages

 

it’s late

the sky has darkled

hazy moonlight

drips across ice-moss

grey-green slate roofs

 

far to the right

(way off canvas)

guard dogs howl

 

the ruckus of distant crows

snatched in the wind 

sweeping over the moor

adds atmosphere

 

a lamp shines yellow

through the curtains

of an upstairs window

 

the village is sleeping

 

my bike squeaks

I lift it past the outhouse

and lean it against

the cottage wall

 

I raise the oiled sneck

the back door opens

it creaks

 

upstairs a new born

lying between a mother’s breasts

bleats its first complaining breaths

 

a skinny girl

sits at a table

wolfing a doorstep

spread thick

with rhubarb and damson jam

 

a tea-kettle steams

on a ‘Yorkie’ stove

 

I shuffle at the foot

of bowed stone steps

looking up wondering

 

‘Auntie’ from next-door-but-one

bustles past me

all smiles

 

her work is done

for now

she’ll be back in the morning

all being well

 

‘Aoife, go and say “hello”

to your brand new baby brother’

 

‘it’s a lad

his future assured

by winding-gear’

 

the skinny girl pulls a face 

her heart was set on a little sister

 

she leaves her crust and cup of tea

cardigan cuffs her cheeks clean

wipes all trace of sulk away and

with an excited smile bounds up

 

the reedy cries swell

as she opens

then fade

as she closes the door...

 

Aoife calls from the kitchen,

 

‘Come give this a taste, Darling,

I may have overdone the cinnamon.’