Tuesday, 24 May 2011


Old Crumbling walls
With shattered eyes,
A Grey slate gappy roof
Gasps in the rains,
The washday flags
Are gone from alleyways
With children's shouts
From cobbled games.

No smell of fired coke
From tin bath nights,
No Conga ever weaves
Through party doors.
No corner grocery shop
With tick book sales,
No more "Us" and "Ours"
Just, "Mine" and "Yours"

Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2011.

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