Today, a new poem from George Szirtes.
The Death of Woolworths
I feel like a vulture here, she said. The store
was half sealed-off in the infinite melancholy
of small pickings. Wrapping paper, a score
of remnant CDs, barely enough to load a trolley.
Garden fitments, stationery… all the grand spaces
of the humble, vacated. There stood the childhoods:
the sweet counter, the scribbling pad, the lost faces
of the faintly bored dispensing their gentle goods.
Worlds swell, explode, shed light, draw darkness in.
A match blows out in the draught. Nothing will keep.
A plastic pencil case abandoned in the bin
lifts a helpless lid but makes no unnecessary fuss.
Fire, firelighters, matchboxes, ashtrays… Cheap
vanishings. Vultures. We’ll be the death of us.
Read more about George on his website here.
Treat yourself to a copy of George’s New and Collected Poems (Bloodaxe) here.