Go down Folly Lane in the still of the night,
to the old, cracked street and the scratched-out light,
and over The Dings you will hear the sound
of his moonshine hooves on the wasted ground.
He comes down long alleys of litter-bin cats,
half lost in the shadow of tower block flats,
and gallops through ghosts of old cotton and mining.
His coat is like satin and white-water shining.
He's as old as the city and only a foal.
His eyes are as pretty as new-cracked coal.
He stops in the middle of Folly Lane.
He paws at the ground and he tosses his mane.
The graffiti is faded. The pavements are worn.
On his beautiful head is a moonstone horn.
Be quiet. Don't move. And the unicorn will
grant all of your wish and remember you still.