James and Ethel met on a Friday evening in an unusually long fish and chip shop queue. They both share an interest in bingo and pontoon cards. They clicked straight away and after a whirlwind romance involving breakfasts in the Greasy Spoon Cafe. Nights in in front of Emerdale, charades and dominos
They tied the knot three later before a Brahim Preist , Bob Bolton the local butchers son. Sold there two up two down and kept one house. Using the money for a hedonistic three months holiday on the north west riviera Fleetwood. and wasting the rest on the lotto and betting on the races
James Dyer Poem 5- Aubade
I sit in a room of magnolia walls and cobwebs.
Painted passers-by solemnly walk to there or there
as I listen to the Grateful Dead resonate on low volume
until later the clock shudders to milk bottles’ chink.
There is a nought that is a billion noughts.
Added up they equal suburbia: subtracted they equal dreams.
The room wakes up each morning, to sepia half-light.
Aloneness is a Chaffinch transfixed by glass.
Lorraine is on the other side of an owl’s wings.
A single sound here could equal truth
only money, a world out there carousel ling,
a drop of dew, this room of hope, the light awash
Ethel Waddington Stays In
She sits looking at the armchair where her husband used to sit
Fifty years in a cotton mill, a gold plated watch, silver plated cigarrette holder
That led to emphysema, he had cataracts and diabetes
The mill is boarded up, keep out signs, soon to be demolished for housing
There is a gap where she used to wash and shave Frank
A gap that was her youth, increasingly she leans on her daughter
The gap could be filled by biscuits and scallops and lamb chops
Or the world tapping at the door, or the sound of his frail footsteps again