It's the lighting; a beach hut's sculpted shadows,
a white face pushing from a darkened porch,
Mitchum in Acapulco heat, slatted light
across his jacket, Greer walking in against the
sun, a Mexican Dietrich strolling a highway,
headlights stroking her back before she becomes
night, the palms, fedoras, wise guys, bars;
the evening park, a tram's Nighthawks figures,
kids playing floodlit footie round a lamppost,
the hall glow through the fanlight, lincrusta,
dad's torch searching the cellar for the nail jar,
Aunt Flo upstairs hoping I'll pencil a seam
down the back of her painted legs while
Uncle Harry's away, her face under mine,
garish, by the cheap bedside lamp.
A pencilled line simulated real stockings.