radio
in one of the outhouses
the green paint wooden door
opened easily when the metal latch
was raised – clack –
petrol-crystal smell
coal bunker dark
adjust
stay
tools hung white-washed wall
rake Wellington boots tea-box
and that was Grandad’s radio
handsome box walnut knots
polished mesh cloth speaker
onoff volume tuner tick-marks
along different levels of realities
unplugged
no electricity
in the outhouses
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
black wormhole: your gold teeth
doors wormhole: winter / weeks
green wormhole: ‘across the flat meadow …’
radio & Ramsden Heath wormhole: Grandad / Redford
white wormhole: the Joker’s face
wood wormhole: one mirror
mlewisredford 
Ah, the radio days.
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I actually don’t know anyone else that calls/ed their Grandad, Grandad. 😃
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he actually died when I was about two, so he was very much alive to me only through the occasional objects of ‘Grandad’s I encountered on magical visits to Ramsden Heath
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Sweet. It’s funny how inanimate objects can somehow retain the ness of their owners? How you may connect with them through their possessions?
We’re from Taunton and Exeter. My uncle was a beach photographer at Weston Super-Mare during summers off school… Some other places, too…
They arrived in Canada in 1965. The Greek side did, too. It’s a great point of pride for me that my people had nothing to do with the atrocities visited on First Nations people. 😊
I ❤ your blog! I really like the way you typeset your poems. The way it makes the words flow…
Hope you had a great day! TTYL, ‘gator. 💋
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