(A Poem For Liverpool)

It’s not her standing together
or her walking alone

It’s not the blues of her reds
or the beat of her blues

It’s not her echoes of caverns
or the knots in her ash

It’s not the shout of her twisters
or this port in a storm

It’s not her skies full of diamonds
or her streets paved with bold

It’s not the lives of her birds
or the deaths of her sons

It’s not the flights of her pickets
or her right to be left

It’s not the crush of her people
or her people uncrushed

It’s not the chase of her steeples
or her hedging of bets

It’s not the goals of her strikers
or the holes in her nets

It’s not the mouth of the Mersey
or her permanent waves

It’s not the look of her Irish
or the luck of her slaves

It’s the leaving of Liverpool
thinking of this

It’s her welcome, her handshake
her V-sign, her kiss

It’s her climb for the prize
after falling from grace

It’s the tears in her eyes
and the smile on her face

From Manchester With Love

By Tony Walsh