My Liverpool Overcoat

The city is my overcoat,
frayed musty cuffs, torn
pocket and a worn collar.
My coat’s protection aged,
dignified, yet often defiant.
It resists waves of cynicism,
as befalls the call of my coat,
I gather it about my body,
curling it’s collar to my neck,
unfurling it’s strange comfort.

It seems mystery itself lies,
somewhere else, short streets,
dingy bars, no place to hang
all those precious memories,
seeking reference points, one
familiar face, or sunny smile,
shot through a city’s loving lips,
changing itself slowly, oddly,
as if turning it’s back on itself,
unfurling it’s history on streets.

By Clive Griffiths