Speech flowing in caressing cadences telling your world, the before and after, the here and there telling only half your story. Since the children ,unknowing heard your demi-Parisian twang labelling it German, stoned you and Frenchy Rose in the street. Since the zeppelins shadowed London, one side of your tongue has been silenced. Swift-like you flit around the kitchen recounting Soapy Ethel's bathwater flying from the top window drenching your only hat. Locking Meme in the lavatory, as Marie Lloyd was waiting at the church. The warm brown of the big teapot and the flour in your hair. Blue Players Navy Cut from Miserable Sid's Warm by the fire in your yellow kitchen When you died we found 42 full cans Of rusted 'Bronco' distemper, all the shade Canary Yellow With a horsehair sofa Hoarded in the cupboard Underneath the rickety bottom stairs Behind the button boxes, odd china, indian brassware and the memories The stairs fell down when we took the tins out Needing the support, as we did.