The first of ten apartments go on sale
in The Old Workhouse. Marketed as shells,
each has an island fitted and a power
shower. The kerb-appeal is rust and grime,
bars in the windows set so high that all
that anyone can see is sky, white sky
with specks in it that might be birds of prey,
and over all the patina of time.
When we broke a plate, a cup, a vase of yours,
your lamentations were so loud, almost,
as to be overheard by the neighbours,
the screams, the slaps, the threat of the workhouse.
We lived in its shadow, by the orphanage,
the gaol, the madhouse, and the abattoir.