Footprint Of A Litherland Poet
They lie there so carelessly,
in furrowed rows they are deep in sleep,
yet I have few concerns to share,
no new tale to tell.
At least not here on this land.
where I now sleep,
it is some other place.
Can you hear a telephone box
ringing after night time folk are gone,
to wherever they rest,
or to wherever they must eat.
At that time, the dusky wisp of day,
closes it’s eyes to all things.
Suburbia is crying there,
though not alone, tears lie
on her dark dank streets,
around skirts of old houses,
where marks of effort and illness lie,
so passively. It was once nice here.
Yet even robust birds have fled,
abandoned roof tiles lie up there,
emptied of their residents,
of true grace as well.
Once young children played here,
Laughing under a golden globe.
I cannot see anything changing,
at least not with one twilight shift.
The people now stay inside,
speaking to their reality televisions,
sinking in to unbusy lives,
as dust of yesterday is washed away,
leaving only one poet’s footprint.
By Clive Griffiths