About her

Ten Silk Cut - three left,
and a stubbed out fag-end;
a back door key
she'll never use again;
couple of quid; piece of string;
her godmother's phone number;
words of her favourite song blown
down the Mersey in November.

Small hopes for tomorrow
and the day after that;
the shock of a slap
that smarts from years back;
the particular blue
of the sea in Donegal;
dirt under her finger nails;
dead mobile; skipping rhymes;
lucky star. Bugger all.

By Peter Berry