Waiting For the Gang (Poetry)

Early and cold enough for cardigans and socks
where the lawn fell in the shadow of brick
and the daisied grass unrolled, doused with dew.
Summers then were gradual with creeping warmth,
unhurried, leaving the sun around
the corner of the house until midday.

We sat on the stone front step,
our white cotton knickers reddening with polish,
making plans, waiting for the others,
boys mostly — Robert, Chris and Phil
and sometimes Gary — the older ones.
Occasionally Wendy.

From indoors the droning song of hoovers,
the radio tuned in to Housewives’ Choice :
our fathers at their desks or driving lorries,
our mothers keeping house and discipline —
sweeping dust and children out into the garden
where washing dripped, unwrinkled, Omo bright.

Those minutes pressed small vivid flower traces
in memory, their imprint like a stain, indelible
and able to re-conjure chilly stone, familiar sounds and smells,
the nonchalance that hid the ache of waiting —
the shrug when Phil or Gary never showed
denying fiercely either of us cared.