The taxi had ground to a halt

somewhere down the Kirkdale Road,

hurrying home now in jeopardy, now a part

of the routine

of travelling and being ill

as bones shook to death,

out of the corner of my eye,

I saw a young lad, no more than eight

and small, Gerard sized, packing a wallop

with a ball against his parents’

wall and no doubt making the vase,

brought as a present by an aunt with no taste,

all kaleidoscope and narrow lip,

wobble on a hastily put up shelf.