Soot blackened backstreets, dry-cured tales
of Quarry Hill; hope quipped through a bookies
door, murmured chip-shop reality.
Up there, on the rise, stark reminder of mortality;
the tower of Saint Marks' looked down on us all.
Victorian values, embedded in mentalities, coated
with stale grease on blue overalls, works' grime.
School bells rang for young engineers of factories,
arid spectre of memory; dust, in thirty years time.
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2004 edited 26.07.10
