By Ivor Griffiths
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Johnny Fog
Standing in the shadow of Mount Sinai hospital bright, yellow and white,
back in time red haze of heat, July in Fulham home, three years old.
Holy Cross bell clangs, off key, crowded city sounds consume noise, no melody,
burning tar stinging eyes roofers ripping felt sprinkling pebbles and grit, creosote drying, Fog, a recurring vision, cajoled and treated with derision, leaves.
Fourteen years old and weighed ten stone learned to fight my dad
in a boggy rain soaked gardens ankle deep in mud, paddling pools still half full,
emptied, waiting on a refill.
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