Domu, Bangor High Strt 1997
Dad on a chair. Does not stand up. Espresso rolls off his wooden table into gullets. No one tears up.
We are not here but twenty-five ago inside dark red Fuel cafe and Ma, my age but alone – with her neat brown fringe and tight figure, an Australian Ma – peers round the corner.
— & what do you two rascals think you’re up to?
Unborn children under a spotlight or a tree that never grows. Think about this when sitting alone swaying in a bar in Anglesey with my FURIOUS FACE. Anyway I say. Anyway – if the tree did grow, I’d only mourn the sapling & Anyway I say, what does it matter when death is the gatekeeper of our dirt trail. Take it all away.
Tape reel of stars begins winding itself in. As I board a steam train, the village peacock ambles proudly past into the liquorice night. Zip rucksack up to keep Cold out of my special Belongings. Check the large screen for a green gate number. Wincing, but largely taken by the romance of long-distance phone calls and mouldy stench of waterproof clothes.
Bye & Bye.
Blossom says, First thing that came to mind is the bozouki, a greek lute. Relevant only because I lived in an old woman’s attic for six months in Greece, in her dead husband’s bed and he was a famous bozouki player his whole life, travelling the world playing it. I’d say that I could hear the little bozouki noises through the night as his ghost sang to me, but that would be a lie.
In our dream band, on the bozouki:
Blossom Hibbert has a pamphlet published by Leafe Press. Her work has appeared in The Temz Review, Litter, International Times and Buttonhook Press.
Ran Off With the Star Bassoon 