title. an ongoing red
right now. Second year studying History
current favourite writer. Owen Sheers. and Alex.
An Ongoing Red
Scene 1
​
Red draws me back to that first spark.
The one you lit when you handed me that CD
in a tired, blank citroen.
"This is what I listened to when I was young"
A want to share, not impose.
Chrissie Hynde's red jacket. Her defiantly unfeminine voice.
That's what I remember.
The poignancy bouncing off and igniting a love for rock- hilariously
8 years old, feet still dangling, the blurred countryside.
Her jacket the colour everyone told you was your favourite-
several years later, you revealed it wasn't.
We were surprised.
​
Scene 2
​
Swift and elegant, my mother's hands tie the crimson silk bows around the house.
Door knobs, the stairwell,
we steal one for the dog.
My father, wellies lined in a thick red sock,
big hands
carrying the scent of damp wood and coal.
Her hair tumbling from a black velvet hairband and,
I can't understand why they call her redheaded.
Those locks are a brilliant orange.
A poignant, soft and silently strong colour.
Like her.​
Scene 3
​
The burgundy old navy jumper. Carrying with it a blurred childhood memory,
a missing marble.
An intriguing boy who had to watch all the video adverts and sucked spaghetti
so that it whipped
and stained him red.
A red transformer.
A snatched flash of time.
Red was the colour you emitted when you shone, not the one you left when you had to go.
​
Scene 4
​
A tired red car, music that fed a love.
An aux cable guarded by your thigh.
A long mocking Summer, hungover Pink Lemonade.
Hearing my name for the first time.
Quick, strong lines.
​
A borrowed red jumper, several blue t shirts.
A soft, vulnerable flash of time, a stabbing city.
Red 1st class stamps, shutting off see through words.
​
Scene 5
​
A bouncing boy in a red polka dot Alabama jumper. Floppy haired and asking
"Have we drifted apart?"
You cannot drift intentionally and
my sails are packed away tightly.
​
Fresh, quick, passionate
I see red in your tomato sauce and blurred hands, reminding me
of your Father's creased tanned hands
gently holding up a paper bag for me to smell. The strong colour of your culture.
​
When I see red I see you both, fiery words, hidden passions,
making me see people.
I see flattened Tunnocks Tea Cake wrappers.
I see a hot rod of iron, red and untouchable at the ends,
cool and peaceful in the centre.