Brain sparks
by Hilary Stuart-Williams

I was born in London at Hampton Wick,
now fairly trendy but then in poor nick.
My father from England, my mother from the Isle
staying afloat on a sea of brown tile.

My grandparents, Le Quesnes, lived in Pontac
right by the sea and far from gutters black.
So to Jersey we went, cases in hand,
fugitives out of a sunless wet land.

We flew with our car (believe it or not)
VW camper, swimmies, toy poodle and cot.
Descended on Mommo as a hoard on the hoof
for weeks on the beach and nights in her roof.

And that was my youth - life all afar
including Liberia and sweating in Dar.
But time after time when vacs came around
for summer in Jersey our family was bound.

Now, nearly fifty, with life antipodal
my memory turns to images nodal.
Little bright pictures over the ages
random scintilla that fill out the pages.

Tender to Skippy (whose was the boat?),
Green Volksie-Porsche (many a gloat).
Sun on Rue Lauren lighting the trees
tide in the gullies, vraic to our knees

Climbing the cliffs, my brother and I
radio aeroplanes lost in the sky.
Motes in the sunshine glowing on beds,
hair stiff with salt, awash on our heads.

Coveted gulls’ eggs, walking our dog,
cries from Corbiere lost in the fog.
Mock conger soup and warmed-up old gravy,
mullet in the shallows and scum-lines all wavy.

These are the images kept in my mind,
the ones set out here and more of the kind.
Bits of my past that will always be clear,
thoughts of what made me, that keep Jersey near ...