One I prepared earlier

Grandma’s Castle.


It rises from the box,
bubble wrapped and storm damaged.
Three spires are top-lopped,
bright clay showing like Blackpool rock.

Satin pillows are sucked as we cross the bridge
trailing Granddad.
Age darkened welsh stone
spans
the slug green water
as it ebbs
to the sea.
Sunlight on stone darkens shop windows.
we spy,
cup handed.

Carpeted quietude is crushed
by the bell’s jangledance.
Glass cases full of grown up trinkets,
baubles,
indifference.
Then on high,
My little eye spies
Turtle-green varnished, wizard hat spires.
A hodge-podge of turrets and towers
Playschool windows
lit by a twenty watt peach pygmy glow.
Under the bridge
time flows.
Cracking the glaze.