Efter da appointment
by Maxine Rose Munro
Pictir,
turnin da key athin dy front-door lock, hit sticks,
jöst a bit, hit aawis does,
bit wi da peeriest o scrapes, an a grate, du's in.
– hit's naethin, du kens hit's naethin –
Pictir,
inside is no quite da sam as afore, dere's a air
o shut windows, stoor.
Da tap drips waatter inta blocked keetchen sink.
Bare waas, pale patches whaar faimily photos eence wis,
or perhaps, wan day wid be.
Furniture, carpets, coortains, tv, aa vanished.
Hit's lik a tief cam an took dy past
– or wis it dy future? –
Pictir waitin,
white-knuckled, fir someen ta com, see whit's gein,
see dis terrible thing dat his happened,
say 'Hit's gyaan ta be ok'.
An dey com, bit dey see naethin – naethin –
aathing looks da sam ta dem.
Du fins du’s fadin.
Pictir lookin athin a mirror dat isna dere,
seein naethin,
Pictir settin maet apö plates, apö table,
feelin fir whaar dey lie.
Or climbin inta bed, curled aneath covers,
bit is ony o it really dere?
Pictir dy past, present, an future's been stolen,
bit hit’s onnly dee at sees hit?