Morning in an industrial town
we are Lowry’s people, the ones he dreamt of at night,
then captured in profile
ear to shoulder leaning
into Autumn drafts. Nothing
but a suggestion,
thick globs of fatty paint
on an urban canvas, trailing little black
dogs that never meet the eye, but stare
brainless at the tarmac bubbling underfoot.
This is my nameless northern home town
scribbled large in slick diesel puddles that reflect
only orange cones, patchwork building sites,
bus shelters and bookies; a row of charities selling
wear and regret, clashing with Cash for Gold!
Our music this morning
is the drill and digger duet, our song,
voices tumbleweeding out of pub doors.
