TRAIN TO NUN HEAD.

A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON.

You took Lydia
to Nun head
train station  
to meet your nan  

and show her
around the place
you first lived
as a kid

down the road
by the rows of shops
where your mother
must have taken you

in the pram
as a babe
Lydia kept close
to you

anxiety all over
her face
and in her eyes
her thin hands

clutching each other
you went by
the big bomb site
opposite

your nan's place
and knocked
at the door
your nan opened the door

good God Benedict
what you doing here?
come on the train
you said

that's a long way
for a young boy
I do a lot of travelling
you said

does you mother know
you're come here?
not yet
you said

she gazed at Lydia
who's this?
Lydia
she's a friend

you said
best come in
your nan said
and you followed her

down the passage
Lydia closed the door
behind her
you went

into the front room
and sat on a small sofa
in front
of an open fire

does Lydia's parents
know she's here?
Nan asked
not yet

you said
Lydia looked at you
her eyes wide open
well you best tell them

when you get back
Nan said
want a drink
and biscuit?

yes please Nan
you said
Lydia nodded
and mumbled

a soft please
Nan went off
to the kitchen
and you sat

looking around
the room
that's my nan
and granddad

in the photo
with my old man
as a kid
with two

of my uncles
you said
pointing
at a large

black and white
photograph
hanging on the wall
she nodded

and smiled
she put her hands out
to reach
the warmth

of the fire
should have worn more
than that thin cardigan
and dress

you said
she looked
at her brown
battered shoes

and white ankle socks
nothing else to wear
until Mum washes it
she said

nice place
she added
warm and clean
and cosy

we used to have
the top two rooms
when I was a kid
and we live here

you said
wish we had a garden
she said
instead of just

the grass outside
the flat window
and more flats
beyond that

maybe one day
we will
you said
she gazed at you

and said
yes maybe we will
a little house
in the country

with kids and a dog
and far
from my brother
and she touched

your hand
with hers
her thin fingers
cold as icicles

and a blueness
about her lips
and you looked
at the blue book

of WW2
your granddad had
on the bookshelf
which you liked

to read each time
you came
not thinking
of any house

in the country
with kids or dog
but a homestead
on the prairie

a mere horse ride
from town
with maybe Lydia
and her doll

and your rifle
hanging around.