Black Brogues
 
Black leather lace-shoes.
Always.
 
As a child I used to watch
your ritual of cleaning
biscuit box packed with
tins of polish
wooden backed bristle brushes
red for smearing the sticky blackness
yellow for rubbing to a shine
the rhythm a kind of hymn
 
Black leather lace-shoes.
Always.
 
Or almost always.
Sometimes, on holiday,
your feet exposed
tan sandals on the beach.
With socks, of course.
Shocking as nudity.
Never plimsolls or trainers
Slip-ons or Velcro.
 
Black leather lace-shoes.
Always.
 
Now, stacked in the kitchen
between fridge and freezer
a jenga tower of
identical specimens
collected for decades
cleaned, cared for,
predictable, safe.
 
Black leather lace-shoes.
Always.

Elizabeth Dunford

If you have any comments on this poem, Elizabeth Dunford  would be pleased to hear from you.