Every year came the day when the uncles with peuce faces took off their jackets. When the aunts’ pink slip straps slipped down their  plump arms. When the flying ants came out of the cracks in the pavement. When our mothers let us pour boiling water over them . When I later learnt I then first knew we like festivals but prefer executions…

…….in the smalling room of my ageing I l hear the children on the pavement below. Then it is late and the children are sleeping. But the children are still singing because the pavement has learnt their songs…….

……….we lie glistened in our fading heat. Outside  the day is coming to an end. On the pavement below the men  are still playing cards. Moroccan phrases and cigarette smoke drift up past the open window. Their women are cooking indoors. There is a single, street wise blackbird. The pavement is learning his song. It is a place. It is a time…..

……which memory folds into its ecstatic  indifference. In the street of permanent moonlight I see all your loves. They are walking with all of mine. It is more peaceful this way….

……..there are cracks in the pavement