Under The House

Under the house
in the cobwebbed twilight
amongst garden tools
the old lawn mower
a couple of rubber gas masks
left over from that
unconsummated war
a scattering of lead croquettes
on the dust-matted floor
(I never did know what they were
for)
next to the grimy window
sits my old yellow pedal car
right by the spot where
I used to pick up my
imaginary friends
on innocent, pre-school
mornings
in the 1950s dream-time
before I learnt that
imaginary friends
couldn’t go driving with me
and didn’t have real names.