By Niamh Twomey

Sometimes I dial the number
Of a house that’s no longer there.

A house with an outside toilet
Round the back
Full of cramped rakes
And shuffling buckets.

A house wearing flowers
Like a wooly blanket
And hedges I used to trim
From a three-legged stool.

A house of Tanora,
Dirty cups
And a leak in the kitchen roof.

A house with a fireplace,
And Granddad sitting beside
Constantly poking the flames
And flinging sweet wrappers in.

A house with a deaf dog,
In a wirey grey coat,
Called Trotty-
But it’s years since he could trot.

A house where games of 45
Spin round a centerpiece
Of dirty pennys.

The number
021 4362305
Still rings in my ear.

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