A shift in mood

A shift in mood

Carries me away

Thrown off-kilter

Old houses with bowed windows

Cracked glass

And split frames

Narrowed alleys

With cobblestones

Are grounding,

Grudging reminders

Of mortality.

They can feel happy

In a sorry way

A glimpse of

Worn carpets and ragged rugs

Frayed edges

Barely reaching the skirting board,

Painted cream

To hide the stain

Of nicotine and tar.

Oak tables

Too heavy to lift

Without a muscle or two.

Gold and silver brocade curtains

Thick with grime,

Bought from the Co-op

With a dividend,

Pulled together in the daytime

To show respect for the dead.

Too many to count

Heavy with darkness

Even in summer.

The warning siren

The pithead bell

The too-slow walk

The helter-skelter

Of panicked mothers

Snot-nosed wives and grubby kids.

The spirits of the dead

The yell of drunks

Beating sorrowed women.

Misogyny laid bare

Every Saturday night

The Colliery Inn

The big fight

Playing silly buggers

With rabid dogs chained to railings

Outside a snooker hall.

Waiting for the barking

To raise the hackles

As red-faced drunks

Spewed out from

The Miner’s Welfare

Tribal warfare.

Velvet drapes and blue suede crepes.

Mum’s in floral pinnies

Wreathed in flour

Wielding rolling pins.

Spotty-dick and custard,

Every Wednesday.

Never a euphemism

(Wash your mouth out

With soap and water).

More an allusion

Of innocence lost.

A trip to Sunderland

A Christmas treat

Shopping at Binns

In Fawcett Street.

As magical a journey

As going to London

To see the Queen.