Manchester Road
Friday night through filthy fog
Side by side with Dad
Muffled under coats and caps and gloves
Scarves tucked inside for warmth
Walking warily towards the bus-stop by the shops
Butcher, baker, grocer hold no interest
Mostly closed this time of night
But windows lit to show their wares
Condensation streaming down the insides
Gathering in pools at the bottom
A smell of coal-dust in the air
Smoke from a thousand chimneys
The clank and hoot of distant shunting-engines
From the railway yards half a mile away
Hidden in the smog
The pub across the road, its windows dimly lit
Faint beams of promised comfort
Reflected across a wet pavement
Its hanging sign motionless in the still air
Dad wants a paper and his ciggies
Dives inside the newsagent for a moment
Allowing me to slope next door
To shiver in the dark, damp doorway
And peer in envy at the toyshop display
The train-set and the cricket-bat
I’d been wanting for my Christmas
Hoped-for, hints long-dropped
Standing at the bus- stop
Peering through the gloom
Stamping foot to foot
To try and warm the toes
Dirty pavement underfoot
And in the greasy roadway
The swish of slowly-moving tyres
As the cars creep past the queue
Waiting for the throbbing, heavy engine
And a larger pair of headlights to emerge
To come and find us waiting, shivering
To pick us up and take us into town
Sitting on the upper-deck
Where the smokers sit
Coughing in the cold and damp
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