Sunday, 25 October 2020


Ripples of time

gathering pace.

Working up to the wave 

that crashed into me, 

propelled me forward

and now sucks me back.

Thirteen decades.


To a place beyond my imagining,

so tidy now after the crash.

Gentrified now.

Rippling gently.

But before,

in my father’s time.

There was beer mixed mud

and crowding children.

And smells of horses

and metal.


Fire and metal work.

Children who 

would leave behind

the mud,

and country 


for the dust

and smog.

For the city grime.

Streets and factories.

More fire and metal.



And what then?

Still poor.

What then?

What secrets lie in those ripples

of time

washing over me


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