Doors and floorboards uprooted for the fire; the widening gaps we had to leap across to reach the parlour, and the sudden silence if a door handle turned.
Mice loved that house, living in the backs of chairs or behind the butler sink, their footprints cut neatly through the cold fat in the frying pan… like a grave crossed after snowfall.
When light finally entered the house, it was through the holes in the roof where the slates had been; and after it was bulldozed the street disappeared from the maps.
Derrick Porter grew up in Hoxton, London. His work has been published by Magma, Acumen, Interpreter House, Brittle Star, Poetry Review and elsewhere. This poem is taken from his new book Voices of Hoxton, launched by Thamesis next week. More information: http://bit.do/voiceshoxton