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Poetry Library Southbank Centre - The Poetry Library housing the Arts Council Collection at Southbank Centre

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Mike Barlow

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The Cellar

The bare bulb my father hit his head on
stuck down from the ceiling at an angle,
its crooked pool of light tilting at empty boxes,
the broken pram, an armchair with its stuffing hanging out,
garden tools with snapped worm eaten handles.

Cold shadows watched me, hatched cobweb plots,
breathed dust. I'd catch their voices in the scuff of mice,
the crack of plastic in a draught.
And should I think out loud to reassure myself,
the sound I made would stand my hair on end.

Once the river flooded. For a week three feet of water
unlocked it all. I'd look down from the steps
into a black mirror, count empty paint tins,
broken planks, a scuttle bobbing in a scum of dust,
hear a splash as something swam across the darkness.

At night my father would return from work,
strip to his underpants, descend by torchlight,
wade waist deep to fill the meter with tomorrow's shillings.
Watching him I'd think of Venezuela where, I'd read,
pirhanas could strip a man to bone in seconds.

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