The morning sounds of Maxwell Street enter the room,
and join the clock ticking on the bedroom mantle piece,
the wood pigeons in the Convent's trees,
and the distance rumble of traffic on the Sands,
Voices pass the time of day
with obituaries in the morning sun.
On cloudy summers, beneath the fruit trees,
and round the cloths poles, we used to run.
In a boxroom of delights,we searched among
the musty refugees of a fifties childhood.
The Scots magazine and the willow pattern vase
have become my anchors.
In the constant world of the weekend house,
my heart lived, not I.
Where the clock marked every hour of my infancy,
even now as the world speeds by.