poem, poetry, England, South Africa

WHEN IT GOT COLD

when it got
cold, cold, cold

we would watch
Dr Who on television
around the gas fire

we did not know
how far South
we would be
sailing soon

how balmy they
could be
those balmy Indian
ocean white
sand beaches’ nights

but Dr Who too
had places to go, future
times to meet
Daleks
just around the corner
to terrify the life
out of the nation
(thanks to
Mr Nation)

so
frights to be had
shores
to say goodbye too
and hot tea to drink

my sister Sharon
saying nothing but sensing
the two of us
returning in the future
back for a squizz
a reconnoitre
a blessed
peep in
through that exact
window to see
how it was

tree full of bees
by the backdoor and
our nice
imported little fridge
and watching
with Mother and those
short-short, too
short
English Summers send
Springs
and Autumn, Keats’ season
the trees
changing colour

and we
already
selling up
already
on the move

boat sliding out the harbour
together on
the ocean for
goodbye to
all English things