for my brother
On Sundays when we were younger
we drove to the shopping centre
in your 1977 Celica Mustang and smoked
the tyres in the back car park and played
We Can’t Be Beaten, loud as the stereo would go.
And then we’d spin each other
in shopping trolleys, until our eyes hazed over
and the sky was a kaleidoscope of blue and grey —
it was the only thing to do on Sundays.
Remember? You would tell me, you wanted to pull down the sky.
I could see, your eyes were already full of it.