Distant Memory
Sickly sun sinks low in yellow hue
as whiffs of fish from frying shops
burn through
passing horses hooves clip clops,
gusting sharp winds blow packets,
paper rackets
of salt n vinegar around our shoes
and old drunks stare from a stale window pane
longside their frothy brews
say Is there anything to attain
in these murky ghostly streets of Crewe
The horse moving on pulled its load
behind we gobbled chips along the road.
(c) JJ
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