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

I remember the stale smell of the air

in that room, where we couldn’t see sky.

And the people who breathed there, had

relinquished outside, time passing slowly,

their skin, that particular pallor, so each face

matched the distempered walls.

If they came in quietly, anger was seeded

by random shouting or key bunches rattling.

They called me Miss and in turn they were Mr.

And I made it my rule not to learn any ‘labels’.

I remember a tall young man, his head

like an icon, whose surname was Else.

Once, he demanded I write to his wife, I refused;

explained if I did, it would be like a letter

from him to my husband. ‘Lady’, he said, calmly

before that flash when he took up his chair

and hurled it. ‘Lady, in here I feel nothing.

I might just as well write to your husband.’

Then he quietened and opened the file he always

carried. It bulged with his writing, his drawing

and cuttings. On the cover, its large-lettered title:

A Better World for My Children.