First published in June 2021

Not an address
I often think about
these days, but one
I'll never forget.
A red sandstone semi,
Grandpa's garden, rigid
rows of geraniums, blue
lobelia, white alyssum.

The stolid house stood
opposite the park,
where in summer we
heard the pit-pat of tennis
balls, played tea-parties
in the porch to strains of
'The Laughing Policeman'
on Grandpa's gramophone.

Then there it is, large
as life, Overton Drive on tv -
the park now a leading light
in community allotments
worthy of prime-time coverage -
behind it, that familiar house,
porch, high hedge, green gate.
'Look - my Grandma's house!'

The bemused man-in-my-life
glances at the screen. 'So?' he says.