It seemed much colder

for the time of year,

November in Bootle on the doorstep

whilst I fiddled for my keys, unlocking

the door with its customary deep groan,

“Hurry it’s cold”. You pronounced it cald

as if to draw out the meaning

and I told you so as I flicked the

inside light switch.

“What’s in a vowel?” You smiled,

beaming brighter than the bulb

over your head, incandescent.

“A lot”, I replied, “You would moan,

if in the cald,

I asked you to show me your tuts”.