Two roads cross at an ancient obelisk,
crumbling red stones,
anonymous tomb or local myth,
thoughts of a highwayman’s fancy.
Down the older-end, of similar build,
cottages, moneyed folk, incomers, posher
than the new top shop post-war boxes,
thrown up quick,
young families in new shoes, with old tongues
clickers, pullovers, finishers
tacks in teeth and the reek of leather pong.
But there is disease here,
an ambivalent melancholia
“a watch it die and then moan” malady,
virulent, as each factory wizens, and folds
blown into the wet gutter
with the daily mirror chip paper.
© Graham Sherwood 07/2015
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