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By Ivor Griffiths
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Johnny Fog
Standing in the shadow of Mount Sinai hospital
bright, yellow and white,
back in time red haze of heat, July in Fulham
home, three years old.
Holy Cross bell clangs, off key,
crowded city sounds consume noise, no melody,
burning tar stinging eyes roofers ripping felt
sprinkling pebbles and grit, creosote drying,
Fog, a recurring vision,
cajoled and treated with derision, leaves.
Fourteen years old and weighed ten stone
learned to fight my dad
in a boggy rain soaked gardens ankle deep
in mud, paddling pools still half full,
emptied, waiting on a refill.
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