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, green-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 stop, peering through the gloom,
Dirty underfoot, roadway greasy
The swish of slowly-moving tyres
As the cars creep past our position
Waiting for a larger pair of headlights to emerge
To come and find us waiting in the queue
To pick us up and take us into town
On the upper-deck where the smokers sit
Coughing in the cold and damp
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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