They are seen at such distances,
summer ghosts

at Whitley Bay, you in the big sand
digging the best hole ever:

so deep you can stand up to your chest.

I'm the little pest, jumping in
disturbing its tight–packed surface

receiving a slap on the way down,
treading your feet to make myself tall

before you crumple me
with your new–manly hands

then spread your arms over the sand,
smirk for the camera.

We're in that hole together
no matter what they say.

We're in that hole together.
I'm down there with you.

All the way.

Too many kittens, not enough mousers:
This lot are gannin in the pail.

Laid out in the bin
warm ashes resuscitate them.

Now Dad must drown them again.
I throw Jupiter in the tatie bag and run.

Jimmy flies up to his room
with a pile of jam and bread.

He's remembering the tot
they said he pushed in

that hot bank holiday.
Dumb. No one knows anything.

He was six then, Dad seventeen
when the First War silenced him.

Great Wars and small tragedies.
Secrets from before my birth.

Unknown sadnesses I came among,
buried like dead kittens

then resurrected,
then reburied.

Let's make pastry, and gravy,
feed it to the dolls,
spoon it into Dorothy's tight mouth:
watch her grimace, watch it cake.

Let's sit them in front of Quatermass and the Pit
or the Wednesday Play
where that woman gets a gun shoved in her face:
Swallow this you bitch!

Her lips round the nozzle. And the gold fish
I didn't mean to kill. My Brother's pet
lathered up, placed in a jam–jar to dry.
And the stray he named Jupiter.

Yes, it could be from a star
or a planet full of cats
but swung by the tail it screams
just the same. Squeals for mercy. Helpless.