cork gja Those on the shelf in front of me. Pulled from the bottles of bubbles for celebrations, commiserations or because they belong in the last bottles in the fridge and we should all be sleeping. Any times a good time for champagne. The crinkled print says it all and less. Then there is the county of the republic of the island called Ireland. For Ken and Tinas wedding. More than half of a lifetime ago. The lacquered tiles on the floor of childhood friends family kitchens. Resplendent with bolognaise stains. The heels of young princesses. Tottering to post train buses. The notice boards behind desks at which daydreams in lieu study recurred. Or the trees gaped at by guide booked tourists on the train from Porto to Nazare. Poor stunted beasts. Or that yelled at noisy children. “Put a cork in it.” But no one says that now. And my favourite recurs. Hefted from murky red. With an opener jammed at the back of drawers. The pause it delivers is redolent. The confected sniff as it is freed. Tiny crumbs in the dark ochre. Farewell. 170310 what's it to you? who go blather from