Grandparents see future kings in small boys,

promise trips to boating lake and forest

worlds away from the flat above shops 

 

Away from bone-dry August air

heavy with discordant dog barking, raised voices,

kids' screams and throaty open-back buses

 

Like the one to Ilford Market which passed

by broken teeth of war-bombed buildings.

Nan bought sandals from a man wearing a turban. 

 

It was oven-hot. Streetwise kids poked sticks

into treacle tarmac. A boy laughed at my accent,

smudged tar on one of my sandals.

 

Later, on a window ledge facing a brick red sunset

brown-black from coats of grandad's shoe polish 

lay the sandals I wished would disappear.

 

 

First published in Reach Poetry, 225, June 2017