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Hayden Westfield-Bell

Two Thousand and 12 Years Old

I remember when the world was flat
and the water ran off like
a spilt drink on a tabletop
and how they’d do day trips
to the edge on little tour boats
that tugged-up by the big fence
they’d built all round the edge
to stop people falling off.

Then there was that time
man went to the moon
and I remember languid legs
and sooty boots shaking off the ash
next to that statue they found
of some old guy in a diving suit
and the big investigation afterwards
into pre-history and nuclear weapons.

And what about that hot summer
in 2008 when all the money melted
into a chocolaty mess that lined
our pockets and everyone got agitated
because it would take years to
come out in the wash unless
they were rich enough to afford
the laundrette or tax evasion.


Living-Room Spirit

There’s warmth beneath
the bed sheets: propped up
with rudimentary supports
– sticks from the garage
and leftover poles
from broken gazebos.

We’re giggles galore,
stumbling over sofa
cushions to compare
the blankets stuffed
between fat hands,
tying ropes from poles

to tables, to shelves,
to expensive televisions
lounging on faux –
pine furniture, and Mum
will come home and shout
at us, but it doesn’t matter

because we’re cats,
and we’re pirates,
and we’ve got torches
and stickers, and sails,
and swords, and forts,
and glow-in-the-dark stars.



That day
the sun tore
at our eyes.

Now we bob;
heads hovering
over hands
in hope that
when that final
shuffle shears us
from our shoulders
we won’t be


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