Brontë House.

The old flats are long gone now—
Yes, just like the roundabout too
And the looming stone footbridge.

No more playing on the podium
Where I cut my knee, bleeding red,
Or hearing the doors of the pissy lift
Scrape open, in the way that they did;

Or watching Hurricane’s after school,
Bickering amongst ourselves like pups—
Nanny Rita telling us for the tenth time,

To pack it in.