THE CANVAS OF MY YOUTH
Curls of coal smoke hanging in the air,
Friday’s fish odour; tinned fruit with carnation cream.
Psychedelic purple, swirling through emerald green,
Carnaby Street meets Made in Yorkshire mini dress.
“I ain’t heavy …” blasting from the tranny.
(I always preferred The Hollies to the Beatles.)
Screen flickering in the corner,
The incessant din of Emmerdale or Corrie,
My mum’s escape from her humdrum life.
Dad’s geraniums crammed on window ledges,
Their scent pungent and heavy,
Stategically placed by the telephone to discourage chatter
Or a proud exhibition of his work?
The new eye shadow lurking in my bag
To be craftily applied before going out,
Hoping it wouldn’t be spotted as I slammed the door.
Sights, sounds and smells
Splattered forever on the canvas of my youth.