Nosing up above the joists I find
the long-lost or never had, here all along.
A space hopper, primed and perky
skims the glassfibre lagging
like an orange moon. Supine beside it,
a pogo stick. Grandmother’s brown velvet cape
hand-sewn in London. One blue stocking.
Perranporth beach – the whole of it – the cottage
we’d have lived in if we’d moved there,
a crate of fizzy lemonade from the Pop Man.
I tuck two bottles under my arm
and, one-handed on the hopper, bounce
down the ladder, riding high.
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