Morning in the shop
At seven-ten he bought his cake, he says,
He strolled back home then found his neighbour dead.
It is half-past eight now. He asks for cigarettes.
He lay wedged against the door. They had to break the glass.
"I did hear that," a woman says. "I wondered
what it was.
Not a good way to go." "I've not stopped shaking
I went down to his sister's. We had a cup of tea."
He is old; and worn to bone. He does not look at me.
They walk across the concrete where the garages have been.
The morning haze breathes slowly in the cool September air.
Blue clouding from his cigarette fades hot and tender there.
It is a day as beautiful as any he has seen.
If you've any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be
pleased to hear from you.