Saturday, 30 April 2011


I dreamed I took you home to Thebes to meet my Mum.
Another mecca for our pigrims, Piggles,
Pigrims (sic) that is.
I see them stepping from the 80 bus,
Some sick some not so sick,
And queueing up at number 22,
Their scallop shells of quiet in their hands.
I dreamed my home but strangers live there now.
I dreamed my Mum but she’s long dead and gone.
Come in, she said, and wipe your muddy feet.
It’s nice to see you Tony. My! and you
Saint Tony these days, bless and save us!!
Our Toe a saint! My! Fancy that!
Just like that Paul McCartney. He’s done well!
No Mum, I said, He is a sir, I said.
He is a sir and not a saint. It’s not the same.
But is it better, Tony? asked my Mum.
Not better, only different. I said.
I whipped your poke off so my Mum could see.
Who’s this then?
This is Piggles. She’s a pig
From Nubia, Mum. Mum stroked your pretty head.
Good name for a pig, Tony.
You blinked and saw the greasy, tacky, smelly,
hutch of a kitchen. It confirmed
Your idea of Theban Life.
I’m glad that you’ve found someone after all
These years. I told your Dad you would.
Said my dead Mum.

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