by Colette Bryce
you were drawn in the voice of my mother;
not past Breslin’s, don’t step over.
Saturday border, breach in the slabs,
creep to the right, Line,
sidelong, crab,
cut up the tarmac, sunder the flowers,
drop like an anchor,
land in The Moor as a stringball
ravelling under the traffic,
up, you’re the guttering scaling McCafferty’s,