The narrow street is as it always was,

its uneven pavements cracked and untended

patchy grass bordering its crumbling edges.

Frayed ropes still hang from bowed lamp posts

and tired gardens still hide behind struggling hedges.

Apologetic paths lead to faded front doors

while sightless windows, opaque and unblinking,

blank the flat stares of those walking past. 

 

Back alleys, bordered by old chestnut fencing,

lead to coal holes, dust bins and ramshackled sheds,

infested cabbages grow in straight rows

next to onions and carrots in weedling beds.

Nondescript chickens scuff up the dust,

bored yard dogs rattle their chains,

while sad rabbits, in undersized hutches

live out their lives, empty-minded, deranged.

 

 Children's voices echo from grey-gravelled houses,

mothers still call, chiding sons who are late,

then fuss over daughters in tarty frilled blouses,

as they stub out their fag ends on black leaded grates.

Fathers still bind their trousers with string

as, on creaking push bikes, they labour to work.

Good wives in turbans mangle and wring

cursing as buttons fall from good Sunday shirts. 

 

'Harbottles' stands at the top of the road

serving the estate with all of its needs,

sugar and carrots - black treacle - tea,

Woodbines - firelighters and processed green peas.

Small sticky children with round hopeful eyes

stare lovingly - longingly - at Lyons Fruit Pies.

Post Ofice gossips cash Family Allowance

then go to the CO-OP. to shop for their stamps.

                                        

                                                     The Street hasn't changed -

                                                           - it lives on in my mind -

                                                                   - the sights and the sounds -

                                                                            - the smells and the grind.