The first place
to Fiona
It was the first place
we lived and loved
that fourth floor
white walled flat
in an old Brighton town house.
It was a war zone
of cold rooms and drafts,
stuffed newspapers,
rolled up and folded
into the cracks,
filling gaps to block
the bitter freezing blast
from the windows sash
when winds blew in
over the rage whipped,
roiling white winter sea.
From our bed,
on early mornings,
we’d watch a tower crane,
overhang the Kemptown road,
with a Christmas tree
sitting on its jib.
These were mornings
of bright clear skies,
after the waves
of a roaring
gale had receded,
the gas fire’s flames
flickered low,
a mix of yellow and blue,
you played that scratched
Baden Powell record,
and the strains
of the Samba Triste
filled those wooden
floored rooms above Belvedere road.
In the day we walked the sea front,
watching crashing waves
stir the shingle,
while fishermen hauled the boats
up through the pounding
shore, below the kids rides
our love was fiery then.
©robcullen02072020
