sunshine after the rain
the siren call of Greensleeves
from the next street
© Rachel Green March 2026
Windowless Rooms
I used to think them carved,
those ancient picture frames in my grandfather's house --
we used to call it a garage because they built a new house
in front of the old one and let it fall to rot
and by the time they died and we moved in,
the first floor had fallen in, leaving a time-stamped wall
of the original bedrooms, and the flour room
where his bakery loaded sacks from canal barge transports.
The picture frames held prints,
commercial engravings of old paintings,
mildew-spotted and marked with rust spots
from the ancient nails of splinterwood backing,
but the carvings came off in the damp,
where the plaster went soft and crumbled
in the passage of long years.
Mum showed them to an antique dealer
who gathered all the frames in good condition,
with a promise to deliver the proceeds of the sales
from his prestigious Bromsgrove shop.
It wouldn't make them rich,
but it might buy them a new stove for the kitchen.
If she was alive today,
she'd be sending iTunes gift cards to cultured voices
from the 'Microsoft' factory in Kolkata.
© Rachel Green March 2026
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