About change

Soot blackened backstreets,
dry-cured tales of Quarry Hill,
hope nipped through a bookies
door to chip-shop reality.

Up there, on the rise, stark reminder,
Mortality; the tower of Saint Marks'
looked down on us all.

Victorian values, embedded in mentalities,
coated with stale grease on blue overalls,
work's grime.

School bells rang for young engineers;
factories, an arid speck of memory,
dust, in thirty years time.

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edit 02.08.12