A day out in Stratford,

the November day brutally sunny,

the thin air of satisfaction multiplied

and the low down Sun blinding the eyes

and warming the soul

as fish and chips are eaten in Rio open air

and the taste of Greasepaint and the ghost

of Hamlet fills the Time.

 

I imagine the small boy of eight,

the day trip taken from Moor Street

Station past the furthest reaches

of Acocks Green and my grandfather’s garage

with spinning top drivers and the forgotten clippie girl