brat a tatt
the machine guns rang in the wagon works
david mitchell went to rivet there
when his days of play were done
before he went to prison
we walked past this anathema of futures
for we were going to the clay pits
where the great diving beetles were
taking their conker suns deep
and then off along the railway line
to the marshalling yards
where the giant chimneys were
coked grey yet smoked no more
and on down a brick-tumbled bank to
the stickleback pond
to refill our jam jars with delight
fed by the spring of springs
back home to my shed
replete with aquaria and all
ticked off on the observer’s book
of all the lives of our life
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