Wheatfields

Here it is;

the last council housing

in our town,

behind where the factory

used to be,

on the way

to the superstore

and piecemeal units

on the trading estate.

 

Fields?

There is no wheat,

nothing but bitterness

grows in this ground,

on the way to

union-I’m-alright-jack-dom

 

I remember wheat,

fields of wheat,

before the telegraph poles,

before the high tension

between need and want.

 

I remember this,

or do I?

 

I remember cold trips to

outside loos,

and the time Slow Jenny went missing.

It was in the local paper

for a week

but never made the light programme,

though she didn't come back

 

I remember them,

Polish heroes who stayed

and married girls

enchanted by the exotic

tales of Cracow

in the winter.

 

Like me.

 

I remember this

town as bigger

with fewer people,

my house is my world, now.

How did that happen?

Where did all the room go?

 

I remember not

being afraid.

Wars were further away

on the radio,

now I watch them

in the corner,

between the lies

of politicians

and advertisers.

 

Sometimes I think

we have all

trampled the wheat.