by Paul Brookes
Her fingers make an unbroken run
over the walls of our home:
“You live in a strange world.
No bullet holes for my fingers to play with.
No blast holes to climb through when playing hide and seek.”
“You get used to it.
My Grandad played on bomb sites in the fifties.
Much was demolished”
Her, fingers still in motion,
“I love ruins.
Everything should be ruins.”