Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Winter, the council flat in Willington.

Wooden dolly pegs, the baby in the Silver Cross pram.

White terry towelling stiffening on the line,

you will the dark clouds to abate and the wind to bite,

that the neighbours don’t steal your button fly Easy jeans.

Bright primary pegs, red, yellow, blue, green

your toddler child, his chubby arms and legs.

The discount store one hundred wooden pegs

bought in Hope Street, that snap and break.

Arriving home from the late shift, searching the dark

for washing strewn in the wind, caught on branches

of the lilac tree, the crate pallet fence.

And now pegs turn up unexpected.

They are coming out of their hiding places,

backs of cupboards, cabinets and drawers,

the garage space, children’s toy boxes in the attic.

Pegs that once held everything in place

nappies, Baby-grows, t-shirt and Easy jeans,

the waitress uniform,

the mustard and blue checked shirt,

the obligatory metal name tag.