(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-tak
her gait warms the heart
while benignly lit shops
embrace the
overhung high street
Her cardy 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 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
The Ferry Boat, with flying fish
The juke box George
and the staggered hoards
of pubs along the High Street
“Oreyt luv?”
She marches on
past echoed burps
and other amusing orchestrations
Past The Montague Hall
Apocalpysed
by McClusky’s
hanging, rocking re-enactments
The Jesters, 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 reaching 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 of blue plaques
reflecting glory on our Alma Mater
two potato, more
Shrug up yer cardy luv,
and safe home
Though you’d get
nowt worse than lip
in Mexborough