There is a tent under the flyover,

its green membrane door,

old and plastic,

flaps and coughs,

stuttering for a memory,

grasping at the once former etiquette of a visitor

calling at a friend’s house

without prior announcement,

the heavily and obvious cleavage

driven and the naughty never punished

stares of the early morning milk delivery

and the picture postcards

of a long dead era, no milk today,

no festival date by mistake

with a song of one hitting the high notes

and the lifting silver rusted pegs

out of the ground,

no milk today, the tent man has all the needs,

shelter under the warm water skies of Liverpool

and the bright seagull moan,

grassy knoll shot

under the flyover

and soon out of view.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017