Unmade
As soon as they cast eyes upon
Our muddy shoes and soaking socks,
The other kids and parents knew
That we were from the unmade roads.
Of the school’s catchment area,
The fraction we made up was small.
Reputed brutish, we compared
Badly to the pounded pavements.
In truth, I think that they envied
Our potholes and rough traditions:
Card schools, brisk trades in rabbits,
Flashy wives weighing up talent,
The treacherous tales of cesspits,
Motors changing hands for a wad,
Boiled cabbage on Sunday mornings,
Low-lit capers in garden sheds.
It happened almost overnight;
We woke to tarmac all around.
It’s strange when progress seems a threat;
There should have been celebration.
Some were sad; others protested.
To no avail. Under hot sun
Our futures were baked before us.
Only our dreams were left unmade.
Stephen Gospage
Sun 4th Apr 2021 16:37
Thank you, Ferris. I appreciate your thoughts on the poem and your kind words. "Reputed Brutish", yes. There was definitely an "us and them" frontier between the made and unmade roads, even if it was in reality just a product of the local council's limited capacity for putting down tarmac.
I feel your pain, John. Until we moved a couple of years ago, we had a septic tank. Every time it was emptied I feared that Godzilla would jump out. I guess your childhood streets were tougher than mine. Our road was a mudbath and there was a tramp living in a shack a couple of doors down, but some of the houses were quite nice. One place further up the road (owned by a London docker) was detached and really quite roomy. Plus ca change......