Tuesday, August 29, 2006
By Adam Gibson
a Portabello terrace
with bifold doors double-glazed
to keep out the cold and noise;
we buy our vegetables
from down the road
at the open air stalls.
I call home as often as i can
but the weeks disappear into seasons sometimes
and I've forgotten everyone's birthdays
several times over and,
on snuggled nights as the
water-heated oil heaters
switch off in the dark early hours,
I wonder if everyone's forgotten me.
my passport: whereabouts unknown,
my accent: in the process of being lost
somewhere between the
after-work pub and the evening news.
these are quiet glow nights
surrounded by millions of people in
the Tube station trains come and go
and many people are going missing,
last seen on highway lay-bys,
the frozen mossed wastelands
between the Empire-built traintracks of
another cold England altogether
that I can imagine tonight.