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Summer 1979

00:00 / 00:40

Last of the seventies,

and the door to the door

to my grandmother’s garden

is barred by a barcode

of quivered acrylic –

red, white and blue streamers

a portal to her plastic


bleached gnomes, hollow herons;

her pinwheel-flagged towers,

Rapunzelled by strawberries;

narrow yellow ropes, strung

porch to fence like sagging,

exhausted laser beams.

And amidst all this bright earth,

the plump shoot of a boy.

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