By Moira Garland
All that year it got greyer, the blue
sulked like dirty washing.
Elastic snapped by the thousands
narrowing our eyes to reluctant smiles.
Children gambolled about like old myths
of black and white photographs.
We scratched at surfaces
women spoiling for a fight
alongside the dead voices
missing those bright brassy aisles
of luminous packets, like goblins
trying to eat their way into skin.
Moira Garland lives by a beck on the outskirts of a Yorkshire city. She has been widely published, most recently in When all this is over (Calder Valley Press).