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.