rumours

 rumours

scabied in streets that burrow under the names of the old wars 

and the theatres of the old wars with those odd names

balaclava inkerman sebastapol streets away from

the docks that named cuba row and the cape horner 

and the copper men who named grenfell park and

the other wars that named rifleman’s row and taplow terrace

blued in grime now and smoked of long days and long pasts

days of erasure’s money in the chapel’s wooden collection boxes

velvet lined with stain-glassed pulpit talk and having said that

it is said that never again is said over and over again

until the next war takes them away and returns another name

for another street for the children to ignore in their games

of war cornered on two streets the blank street signs waiting 

for the halls of the dead to write again  all change  all change

for this street is a one way ticket to the hallows of the dead 

where the victors smile at the setting of the sun remembering

in a town somewhere just like this one the streets ring out in silence

that the rumours are true and the names speak the truth

happen that they were there and that we are here remembering

how those funny names are anagrams for the blood that was spilt

our illiteracy at the power of the touchstones under our fingers

to read the mapped streets of time gone silent and at our reticence 

to walk slowly back and to think the awful thought

that these names are still screaming for their mothers