The Gilligan’s Nights
By Jill Jones
When I spent too much yellow time
climbing stairs – when hazy gaps would
appear in some private happiness.
When tables glared – when we
stared back sometimes
made the window seat.
When mirrors were no protection
revenants walking between those massive
gossipy flower displays.
When we hadn’t twigged we’d made up
long ago for the Oxford Smash
the Dot Spritzer in the secret glass.
When we threw more time down the stairs
and shook out into our later life – when taxis
preferred to leave the street alone.
When we learnt to walk – when we were brushing
street lights as though we were dying
calm as dark fades into clock time.
Near the War Memorial
bats still click in trees.