Dolcliffe Sunset
(For Rob Dawber)
Stilettos spark and chisel the cobbles
staccato, morse-tapped, clattering
Stuttering and stabbing the night
Cadak-tak cadak-tak, cadak-tak tak
her gait warms the heart
while benignly lit shops
embrace the overhung high street
Her cardie shouldered, she clutches her bag
into the red fag-end of the day
The night a promise beyond closed shops
and squeaky pumps deliver heads
like the foam-cakes by the ferry
Teddy boys and miners
teachers and pterodactyls gather
Taproom chatter is warming;
her chewing gum must be tired…
TV soaps have died away
and winnowed ariels
catch Friday’s must-sees
like anemones
fingering the darkling skies
for invisible transmissions
Concrete clad houses
have cried their babes to sleep
And cascading sarcasm scores
down steep stone alleys
Not the civilised sipping
of The Ivanhoe
or the long-case tick of a country pub
This is the stratum of snug-lounge-bar
tangled in towny slap and tickle
Past The Montague Hall
Apocalpysed by McClusky’s band;
hanging re-enactments in rock
The Jesters club, open after pub-shut
for one-night swivel and jive
(take me to the bridge, firebird)
Past a tiled chip-hole,
the frazzling steel deco monoliths
exhibit windows of battered victims
In parks, on corners
lads in furs and girls
with hair flowing from heaven,
are pub bound
Hippy oils haunt Afghan coats
and No 6 mingle with rollies and spliffs
We pour off the Rawmarsh bus
chattering like bingo wives
chattering with bingo wives
into this township expecting blue plaques
reflecting glory on our Alma Mater
two potato, seven potato more
Shrug up yer cardy luv, and safe home
Though you’d get nowt worse than lip
in Mexborough