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