19. Sep, 2022

'Bricks And Mortar'

They define place for me
And time, of course.
The sooty gold of sandstone
Squared off with thick white mortar,
Soft in the sun,
Stalwart in wind and rain,
Is Halifax, West Yorkshire,
Where I was raised.
Brick, rose pink, aged,
Mellowed, cottage-like,
Even in the streets of Hull
When we reached it after the quiet of villages
We drove through to get there,
Was East Yorkshire,
Where grandparents lived and we visited.
Sandstone houses and millstone grit walls
Are bookended by the bricks of Hull
And later of Manchester where, adult,
I still am.
Lancashire brick is machine-tool strong,
Industrial red from the local clay pits
And fired into solid oblong lozenges,
Row upon row of them
Built in the age of the train.
It is only after we have moved in
To our terraced street cul-de-sac
That I realise what drew me
To this house at once and
The familiarity of it.
From the front, it is very like
137 Lomond Road,
The comfort zone of Grandma and Grandad
And day-trips to Brid,
The first place I knew like this.
So the simple symmetry of brick, stone, brick
Forms the framework of family,
Made from the houses where we've lived.

Ruth Enright