Before the first call of the day

numbers grow bright,

illuminate globes tinkering in and out of darkness,

Christmas lights or an imperfect grin,

a momentary promise

amidst gold-rimmed plates of pikelets and Arnotts.

A blue rinse array of perms and cardigans,

punters fanned by dull slow rotors,

low and familiar murmurs of weather,

gardening, and Tony Barber.
Nell, my Nan, spreads her many cards –

she has all the mystery of a Tarot reader.

A circle of black and white beads at her neck.

Outside the wooden hall the greyhounds

are training, chasing a hare around the track.

Our tables span like ribs across the floor,

Nell reaches to straighten my cards.
‘Eyes down’ and a palpable hush falls –

a last teaspoon tinkle raises eyebrows.

Orderly rows of pens and daubers

rise and fall as number squares

are blotted like missing teeth,

            both the fives, 55

            me and you, that’s 2

            it’s sweet 16 – key of the door

            and stop work, 65

someone calls ‘Yes’ and it’s a line.
A cardiganned enforcer

gives the nod to the line caller,

            and we forget to breathe –

            the lights, the numbers,

my Nan’s lost to the strange incantation

two fat ladies

I’m watching the globes,

and finally it’s ‘Housie’.