June 17, 2023Poem

In those old red brick houses

naturecitymusictimemortality

In those old red brick houses

The terraced ones

Back to back

Jammed-up, close together

Cheek by jowl,

There was never enough room

For a front garden.

The front door opened

And people stepped

Straight out into the street.

The curtains were always

Pulled tight at night,

One sheet of thin glass and thick nets

Separating

The outside from the in.

You could hear people stirring tea

They spoke in whispers

Rarely using the front room

For anything

Unless they had visitors

And still, some guys would knock

Seven bells out of their wives

After a skinful

Without raising their voices

Beyond a terrifying scowl.

You could hear the dog growl

The babies in the back room howl.

Friday nights might see a door broken down

A rescue attempt

By the neighbours.

The police were never there

Too busy taking backhanders

And policing lock-ins.

When the wind picked up

The sea could roll in

Half a mile.

Drowning the lower streets

In sludge and slurry

From the coal heaps.

We could wake up with

A boat in the back garden.

The walk home from a pub

At closing time

Was always accompanied

By a series of musical interludes

Playing on a radio.

If somebody played rock’n’roll

On a gramophone

A crowd would gather,

There would be dancing in the streets

Until the Bobbies finally came.

They became experts

At crowd dispersal.

Just ask the miners.

Adults stood for the Anthem

At the end of a television broadcast,

Even after a skinful

And knuckles swollen from

Chastising the old lady.

Tugging a forelock

Came too easily.

It’s only right

To show respect

Is what was said

Stopping an argument

For the duration.

So many people shouting

Hooray at the end

It could sound like the last night

Of the Proms.

I have never met a Henry

Who didn’t want to be a Harry

Neither did I become a peeping Tom

Or a clever Dick.

It was too easy to be tarred

With the same stick

As the nere-do-wells

Who sat on the wall

By the cemetery

Drinking wine out of a brown paper bag,

With medicinal properties.

In a small town

Getting caught hiding in the shadows

Without a good reason

Was to have a placard

Emblazoned with the words

‘Sheep shagger’

Hung around your neck

For the rest of your life.