The once proud five lamps

that used to light the way

for the edge of a village

on the frayed hem

of the outskirts of Liverpool,

that trams would

sit idly by before returning

to the glamour on offer,

are now silent, forgotten

to all but the curious and the

mindful preservers of

the fabric  of society with

chequered cloth waiting appeal

and the dinner time stamp of approval

as they raise their glasses

and whisper cheers in the dark.

 

A village where the sand runs away

with tide, time, dunes and the number

fifty-three bus, strapped hard and fast

to an engine eating away at the seconds

between five lamps and the upper-crust,

rust, motionless sea gazers

of Another Place and where finding

in amongst the rare and badgered thought

a book on Cornwall

can be found next door

to the memory of the stamped address

envelope and the un-answered

text message floating in the breeze of South Road.

 

To the memory of Waterloo,

no cannons firing, no battles fought

and where history is but

a stone’s throw of discontent

on a Saturday night and the calm

measure of the aligned route

between the Bakewell Tart

and her warm embrace,

red lipstick, leather jacket combination

is all but separated by the whisper

of sand and the cry of the stray

gull arguing with raised beak

against the dying

of the Sun over the horizon

and the unlit romance

that five lamps used to provide.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015