The gutters groan, the dead leaf stew
Turns a torrent into meagre drips
When slate skies pour.
Remember how we spent that summer
Tottering on ladders giggling?
Risking broken bones and bruises,
With less time cleaning - more on tickling.
Springsteen blaring ‘Born to Run’
And us content to sit there listening
To the fools too busy leaving
To notice what they’re running from.
The snow-white walls bear orange stains
Where rust has painted tiger tails
From roof to floor.
It took all week to paint those walls
Between our bouts as Musketeers,
With self-inflicted crosses marked
And your white nose and dotted ears.
I’m sure D’Artagnan never wore
A skimpy skirt with high heeled shoes
Or bend or break fair swordplay rules
To kiss opponents in a clinch.
These rooms are boxes filled with nothing
It’s time to let the echoes die
On a long slammed door.