Kemp Town (Poetry)
09th September 2012
The house bore a wistful air — resigned shabbiness,
a look of middle class decay —
one of a row of architectural pearls, discoloured,
its former lustre all but worn away.
The paint peeled, discreetly, nothing dramatic, just
a few flakes, a subtle filigree of cracks
veining walls while the iron railings
rusted and gradually sloughed their Victorian black.
Inside, the hallway was always cool and dim,
its bareness smelling vaguely of something kept too long —
an odour hanging antique-thin where the green oilskin
snaked up the stairs and rickety banisters leaned, begging repair.
I remember the sitting room for its high, square brightness,
its long windows letting in the sun, letting in the whine of traffic
and letting me out — a child on the narrow balcony
where pink geraniums struggled from chipped pots.
As dusk settled, the house creaked to itself, shawled round
in comfortable shadows, listening to the voices drifting across
from the college opposite, we lay drinking in
the old town’s nightcap of sounds — its warm waves of noise.
The neighbours often came home late — a swarthy Greek waiter
and his ample wife who shared, loudly, the tiny flat upstairs.
Hot-tempered types prone to banging doors and quick-fire foreign bursts
of words, smashing plates, then heavy footsteps criss-crossing floors.
Sleep, when it came, was way too long. I never caught
the dawn napping. My early not early enough, the sun already filling up
the glass with liquid light. Pigeons on the ledge, impatient for crumbs.
The air almost continental, edged with the tantalising smells
of other people’s breakfasts, a hoover droning close overhead,
fading, circling back like an old biplane reconnoitring.
Unheard in the background, the ocean wheezed,
rattling its abacus of pebbles, counting the tides.
For years the sun wove wrinkles on my aunt’s skin,
leathered her looks. The house became more weathered too,
eventually let in rain. Wood rotted, sash cords broke
and the balcony was declared unsafe.
When the letter came we knew all was past repair.
No reprieve — just time enough, we thought, to prepare —
some weeks, some months before the bulldozers would come.
But not before her cancer won.
a look of middle class decay —
one of a row of architectural pearls, discoloured,
its former lustre all but worn away.
The paint peeled, discreetly, nothing dramatic, just
a few flakes, a subtle filigree of cracks
veining walls while the iron railings
rusted and gradually sloughed their Victorian black.
Inside, the hallway was always cool and dim,
its bareness smelling vaguely of something kept too long —
an odour hanging antique-thin where the green oilskin
snaked up the stairs and rickety banisters leaned, begging repair.
I remember the sitting room for its high, square brightness,
its long windows letting in the sun, letting in the whine of traffic
and letting me out — a child on the narrow balcony
where pink geraniums struggled from chipped pots.
As dusk settled, the house creaked to itself, shawled round
in comfortable shadows, listening to the voices drifting across
from the college opposite, we lay drinking in
the old town’s nightcap of sounds — its warm waves of noise.
The neighbours often came home late — a swarthy Greek waiter
and his ample wife who shared, loudly, the tiny flat upstairs.
Hot-tempered types prone to banging doors and quick-fire foreign bursts
of words, smashing plates, then heavy footsteps criss-crossing floors.
Sleep, when it came, was way too long. I never caught
the dawn napping. My early not early enough, the sun already filling up
the glass with liquid light. Pigeons on the ledge, impatient for crumbs.
The air almost continental, edged with the tantalising smells
of other people’s breakfasts, a hoover droning close overhead,
fading, circling back like an old biplane reconnoitring.
Unheard in the background, the ocean wheezed,
rattling its abacus of pebbles, counting the tides.
For years the sun wove wrinkles on my aunt’s skin,
leathered her looks. The house became more weathered too,
eventually let in rain. Wood rotted, sash cords broke
and the balcony was declared unsafe.
When the letter came we knew all was past repair.
No reprieve — just time enough, we thought, to prepare —
some weeks, some months before the bulldozers would come.
But not before her cancer won.