My dad's leather shoes

Old, dormant, resting under the kitchen table

Curled up at the toe, beaten in at the back

Crispy insoles, like sandpaper, grit from the garden

And odour of turps, and beer slurped

Speckles of white paint dot the tongue

Inky blue, now a gauntly grey

Nuzzled by the dog

Sometimes, he forgets, where he kicked them off!

By Belinda Johnston