A Poem For
Gail
Who’s that haunting all the houses?
Running along on one of her rambles,
Barrelling down the Brittox,
And shaking down the Shambles?
Who’s that chasing round the churchyards?
Snapping angels, walking over bones,
Camera and notebook in her hand,
And gandering at the gravestones?
Who’s the gnostic at the altar rail?
In her weeds and flowing dress,
Of great renown, throughout D-Town,
Challenging us all to think and guess?
Who’s that performing in The Bear and Lamb?
Living life hard to find the thrill,
Then cycling through the country,
And running right up Roundway Hill?
Who’s the Phantom on Fantasy?
Or throttling along on the Thirty-Three,
That multi-coloured crazy diamond –
Whoever can it be?
Talking for the helpless and the homeless?
Stories of users, and pictures of dolls,
Fearless, gobby, telling it like it is,
Fighting back, and telling off the trolls?
A long life, and well lived-in?
Of drugs and drink, sacred and profane,
The mistress of the Market Place,
Keeping the rest of us honest and sane?
In her guise, around The Vize she cries,
A poetess who’s prepared to shout and wail,
Don’t try to mess, unless you’d press
The Fighting Force of Nature that is Gail.
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