An endless parade of

Names and
Faces,

that I couldn’t possibly begin to know.

 

Each precedes the existence of me.

 

I follow pathways down cobbled streets.

To and from corner shops,
and into various pubs.
Places of none descript gloominess

and a bitter barley smell.

​

My people wear their flat caps

and chat.
With pint and pipe in hand.

 

Proud of the hard days work just gone.

One day of many...
Sweeping streets
and sewing seams.

​

Patch work quilts

of people
and
places

Keeping me warm as long as the future seems cold.

 

Perpetually curly locks
follow economic shocks.
As mothers, then, stirred soup for 9,

on fathers wages for 5.

​

In houses piled high with

people preparing,
to work another day
and earn their pay.

​

Cobbled streets,

kitchens
and kin
Is where I begin.