There is smoke coming from the chimney of a house down the road,
the road of terraced houses, of boys kicking balls and each other.
If I were colour blind, I would watch out my window all Saturday night,
Sunday morning, an England of nosy neighbours and bouncing bombs.
I would wake up, my head cracked open from a fight at the fair,
and Doreen’s white dress would be the only thing that could make me smile.
But I do see colours. I see the orange of the carrot I chop into my stew
and the red of the blood which drips down my thumb to mix
with the lamb’s, thickening in the pot. I see the golden field and the green
and pleasant land that confuse me for a minute and make my eyes water.
I didn’t know where I was coming to, not really, but I didn’t think
I was coming to the England that beat him down, that killed her,
both years ago on my blossom-lined road.
Christine Brandel is a British-American writer, currently living in the Midwest.
is now publishing poetry and prose
inspired by these, uh, "tough economic times."
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