It seemed much colder
for the time of year,
November in Bootle on the doorstep
whilst I fiddled for my keys, unlocking
the door with its customary deep groan,
“Hurry it’s cold”. You pronounced it cald
as if to draw out the meaning
and I told you so as I flicked the
inside light switch.
“What’s in a vowel?” You smiled,
beaming brighter than the bulb
over your head, incandescent.
“A lot”, I replied, “You would moan,
if in the cald,
I asked you to show me your tuts”.
Ian D. Hall 2016