Moss between the cobblestones.
The only green to be seen
beneath the chimney-pot pall.
Sleeves rolled up,
brownstoning the front step.
Don't want the neighbours talking.
Skipping rope rhymes.
One end tied to the lamppost.
Knee socks round the ankles.
Stood in a doorway,
fleshy arms folded across a flowery pinny.
'Mind the cart-road', she shouts.
Net curtains twitching.
'Doesn't miss a bleedin' thing.
Nosy old sod!'
Queuing at the corner shop
for two ounces of boiled ham,
dolly blue and ten Woodbines.
Coal dust and a damp cap.
Hundred-weight sack on his back.
'That's Ten and six, Mrs.'
Rush to stroke the dray horse.
'Oi! Clear off, you lot.'
Run like hell, laughing.
Friday night, chip-shop, cod
wrapped in News of the World,
advertising vinegar.
Old man Jenkins singing
We'll Meet Again. Fortissimo.
Arrangement by best bitter.
Next door again!
'Have you got a shilling for the meter?'
'Sorry, love, I've only a few coppers.'
Nothing left now.
Gone from Google Maps.
Damnatio memoriae.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
6 December 2024
No comments:
Post a Comment