Friday, 13 April 2018

the dirty nine steps

that rough black slag-shodden road
  pitch deep on rifleman’s row
that guy fawkes cordite-night in 58
  how were we to know

that pearl bulb lamp-lighted road
  down to a wooden secret in aeron thomas’s 
that super-moon wide-eyed night in 58
  when we simply broke our promises

that men-to-work cinder-red path
  to a gutter stalactite culvert
that dared a nine-year old in 58
  go on go on it wouldn’t hurt

that times-gone-by midden strata
  to a ginger-beer fisted jar
that was a stone-made treasure in 58
  grit brown down deep and far

that milk-white coarse-haired ratted gutter
  where we made five fingered fountains on
that damned lake-wide flowing 58
  as deep as the mountains ire

that slag-bot topped chapel wall
  in a slip-footed tightroped daring do
that spied the sangfroid vestry 58
  of a sunday bloody sunday schooling you 
that march-hare heathered hill
  under a lark-blue sky on a spinneying wind
that tore a child’s genie-dream in 58
  and sent it soaring far out of mind

that impatient wriggling well-worn path
  across the wings-on-heel fields to
that tadpolled spring-fingered pool
 to stock my aquarium well overdue

that way down sixty time-sped years
  sliding on the smile-bled tears
that cuffed the naughty boy’s glint-eyed joy 
  for boy oh boy never had we fears
or foresaw when a second childhood nears

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