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.
Nosey 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
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