Lingers Still
when you were six years
old
you told me there was a
man in the garden
with a chequered
headscarf and cap
and one eye white with
age
though the other was
brown as old tobacco.
He was down by the
potting shed
waiting for you to
return
with meat-paste
sandwiches and a glass of milk
like some marshland
Magwich.
There was no-one there
when I looked,
just a lingering smell
of turpentine
and pipe tobacco,
the same smell that was
in your bedroom
when you were on your
school trip to France.
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