Bust Clouding

Polio driven,
into rain sodden,
white cities.
A state of industry,
for a packet of food,
an asbestos house,
and three school uniforms.
The smell of hotdogs,
the roar of anticipation,
and the dreams of every working class man and boy,
alive and well on the left boot of our number 10,
Stanley Bowles.

Stood in the schoolboy end,
but dreaming of being in the loft on days like these.
Soaked to the soul,
and surrounded by displaced warriors,
with flick lives,
blunt knives,
and a happy,
saturday afternoon disposition,
that only lasts as long as the effects of London pride.

In my bones,
me daughters too,
though she's never been, her heart could still bleed,
for the dreamers singing on the terraces,
the light falling on Cumbrian scenes,
or the passing of time.
These things are of ancestry,
close enough to be memory.
Far enough away to be on the other side,
of a light,
globe.

Love and hate tattooed in a more permanent place than knuckles.
The look,
the think,
the stink of success.
Poor and proud,
clouds bust us,

not the other way round.