Guess Its Called Love

It is something, I know not what
but something deeply disturbing or magical
depends on the way you look at it.
When I’m home, its scurry here, scurry there,
taking for granted my place, my roots.
Like kids returning from Uni
soon into the old lip-chat
but when their away can't wait to rush back.

I come out of Lime St
straight into the uproar of St Johns market -
Scousers the loudest voices -
babes the loudest suntan's,
then I see the Liver Buildings,
a stone grey, that says forever Liver Pool
and I get that lump in my throat.

What is this magic about our City
this ‘Pool of yours and mine?
I can never put my finger on it,
sometimes I feel I can take it or leave it
(no never leave it,)
we’ve been through so much
knee deep in rubble then litter
generations between but still the same Scousers
and when I’m far away and hear those dulcet tones,
"Oh aye yeh" I feel warm inside,
just want to go say hello, silly I know,
guess its called love.

By B. Price