In Grandpa’s Garage

newly built an inch wider to regain
the stolen boundary taken by the neighbour’s new fence.

Everything placed around the edges is a space
for grandad’s Ford Popular I let rot on my dad’s driveway,

so it had to be taken away.  Turpentine and dripped paint, swarfega
and rotted grass cuttings, small Golden Syrup tins, strawberry jam

glass bottles full of nails, light grey concrete flags lean against each other
dominoes caught in mid fall. Old bicycle clips to hold back the flap

of his uniform trousers as he rode up and down Harrogate hills
on his official black Post Office bike.

Memories must be binned, charity shopped or auctioned.

by Paul Brookes

A sacred temple it seems to be, or perhaps Plato’s cave
illumined by the good sun, enlightenment streams upon
Precious relics, contraptions to some, laid in order, nuts
bolts tools nails and pails, brushes brooms and  sticks
Collected  in time, oleaginous ? No, polished  defying
destructive distortion, ask the one who perceives them
As priceless  treasures.

What tins and cans  magically dark
what pieces white in artistic grandeur
Wires draping coiled or swinging low ,
like lace, and on  golden black patched
Carpet rests the sharp tailed  royal Chevy
so loved valued , a vintage,  a passionate
Revelation, engulfed in oil scented aura
tranced in multifarious colors-  transformed-
Ah to another  garage in another time where
a jute woven charpoy, an Indian hookah placed
As serving guard, a pair of rubber slippers
on the floor, packing crates stacked  with some
old used leather suitcases , a small wooden table
a jug and glass and some books, was all the label
doorless  space but with a roof, illumined by
the good sun, smoke rising from the mud stove
The aura of freshly cooked wheat filled the air.

By Anjum Wasim Dar