I am from
I am from black and white TV with only one channel, from Tip Top Bread and the Edmonds Sure To Rise Cookbook.
I am from the wheetbix box house, in a tree-lined valley, where the tuis sing.
I am from the gorse, form the ferns.
I am from picnics by the river, from worshippers of the Sunday roast, from Shirley and Agnes and Mabel.
I am from the tight-lipped and the loose mouthed.
From older siblings who told me to scream in the tunnels but laughed when I did and the tooth fairy, who slyly swapped a silver coin for a baby's tooth.
I am from those who mouthed the words of hymns and hated wearing hats.
I’m from white bread flung throughout the British Empire, afghan biscuits, a beer before lunch on the weekend.
From the dark skinned Grandfather who I never met, an alcoholic baker, from the Grandmother traumatised by “The Troubles”, from the Mother with skin scarred by burns, serving time in a hospital which rewarded her with diphtheria and isolation.
I am from the soldier’s diary with terse reference to gas, rats and shrapnel, the photo albums packed with monochrome snaps of tropical lands, monuments and aeroplanes, the memory of 3 kids to a bed, the stories told and those untold.
I am the unplanned one, the youngest of am ever-shrinking family, the end of the line, the last branch of the tree.