Cobbles are polished, smooth
By that thing that ticks.
Feet shuffle past like each year.
I can see where it has gone this year.
Its been good. Its had highs
Of new hearts close to mine.
Its seen choices made for nobody
But me and the right thing to do.
I have grown again.
So join me from tomorrow,
As there's always room beside me to stroll.
Happy birthday.
Its like a time portal from a movie.
You've only got a few seconds,
Push ahead.
Never mind if there's anyone coming the other way.
I made it. I had to make it. Ahhh
Miserable relief of what inevitably is at journey's end.
Now, where to place myself?
Do I have a choice? Yes, maybe sometimes no.
Did I have a choice to come this way?
I suppose not.
Mostly, I want this to be a solo experience,
With someone's breath on my neck.
Touching limbs melt together but ultimately
We're all just a jumble of atoms in this northern test tube.
So why does it bother us so much?
I'm not good at intimacy and she's embarrassed
At the best a'times he could be liking it
But he's asleep.
He sneezed and they winced from the mist.
Forced to look at a picture, I don't see art in your groin.
A recital of all that's not happening in your life,
Still might be preferable to the cricket's march.
Hang on, the exhibition is moving,
To the left and now I get to learn about diet
Because the rent's late inspite of her contract.
Voice in a box puts an end to it,
Everything away the artists shuffle up.
The light starts flooding in, push ahead,
We've only got a few seconds.
There he is, all strappin n tall,
Broad and dark on top like his brothers.
But look a bit closer at this poor sibling.
His gutteral blades of hair need a shave,
And this model needs a window dresser.
He needs filling up with a good feed.
The girls just turn their backs at best.
Smoking and gazing
At his brother's buff spit and polish.
Somebody please pluck that ugly duck.
He's not invisible,
Yet.
Like ma mum I start calling em urchins
Just messing and larking about.
"Why don't they go do sommat useful?"
I can hear myself starting to shout.
"They're just makin noise for t'sake a makin noise,
And that language 'ld turn the air blue.
If they want to play out, why'd they have to shout,
They're allus bickering or having a set to."
But I stop myself then, cause I hear how I sound.
All judgemental of kids being out.
Just cause I didn't do it when I were a lad,
Doesn't mean every kid on the street is a lout.
These walls have seen some life.
Stone faced as all the years of life scrape past.
These walls have left scratches on the folks within,
But little have they changed, just a bit darker like the mood now.
Some of the cathedrals to stone have gone,
We didn't need em any longer.
Working worship fell from fashion and moved abroad,
But these walls which gave a home to those indoors, remain.
If it were home time and the working fella came walkin now,
He'd see these walls in the same perspective.
Only thing is the picture's changed.
The view'ld give him a clue of sommat different.
Satellite dishes have been screwed in to the veins of life.
Bins with wheels'ld be like back alley foreigners.
Rubbish on the wind is fatter now,
And shouts of friendship have been sworn out of use.
Washing lines of chatter have been hidden behind fences,
And them that might remember sit alone like us all.
There'll still be a nod and the odd "how do"
But no one seems to recognise themselves any more.
That fella walkin home were following a line a'purpose.
Mill had a purpose, pub had a purpose.
Houses had a purpose and privies had a purpose.
Sunday had a purpose, churches had a purpose, silence had a purpose too.
"What's the purpose?" I hear him say.
"What are they doing all day? Seems a great deal of effort to do nowt!"
"Why have they got nowhere to go and no bog to sit on?"
"At least these walls are still standing!"
Still the stone looks on....
With my second home of Scotland having to decide on whether it wants to go it alone, it seems Britain is in danger of losing a significant chunk of what makes it Great. There's lots of talk about what unites us and that got me to thinking about language. I, hereby nominate the word 'puddin' as a truly unifying, great, British word.*
I've left the 'g' off on purpose because this is how I would say it, but with or without, puddin is a word for all. It's a warm, soft word that brings comfortable thoughts to mind. Round here there is no debate about is it a desert or is it not and custard is not a defining threshold? In school dining halls and round kitchen tables the cry will always go up "What's for puddin?". Its the part of a meal that truly satisfies. Puddin is classless though and even those of a posher persuasion get the same satisfaction from fruit, summer or game!
But puddin travels. North of the border it's best associated with colours at supper. The smell of batter and vinegar offering a tantalising clue as to the satiation brought about by a choice of black puddin, red puddin or white puddin supper.
My favourite use of the word though has nothing to do with eating. It's when I call one of the kids a puddin for doing something silly or for acting daft.
So let's hope we can all avoid acting like puddins and stay united behind my word for Britain.
*before anyone pulls me up on it I know the word might have a French origin but let's not mention that!
