Old men slouch in the drab gentility
Of the nostalgic railway waiting room
With its Thirties posters and station clock
Rustling their pages, merely keeping warm.
A Midlands town on the edge of nowhere –
Bricks baked from the earth, in ochre roads
The skeletons of mills, an oily canal.
Clouds slide across the pewter sky like shrouds.
In a curious archaeology
Their memories are reflected in here –
A world of rock cakes and steaming tea urns
When cigarette smoke fogged the atmosphere.
There were no poncy trades. People made things.
The ghostly men drink their beer, patiently.
My eyes stray from the oxblood walls. Outside
Two white gulls drift over the rooftops.