The Crèche

Unpacking chests and a box of old photos,

ruminatively gathering strays off the top,

 

I looked at that square of a baby, peering

out at whoever was stood there, snapping.

 

Skitterings coursed through my stomach.

That House. Everyone went with the kids,

 

we just slept upstairs while they got together,

drinking beer and foul homemade wines amid

 

vague reggae notes and ska beats, the air thick

and musty with smoke and patchouli and dogs

 

and I remember that room now. The old crèche

up the stairs. Hanging baskets swinging with spider

 

plants spilling their babies and old roaches,

a backdrop of purple and orange and I was scared,

 

the room was all wrong, unholy furniture,

tall boys and a wardrobe with old murky

 

glass towered over us like ancient Victorian

nannies, black, nebulous and frowning.

© Hayley Buckland 2006