Between Seven Hills
Sitting here, staring out across the industrial wastelands, From my bolthole above the traffic, a wandering I shall go, Over the railway tracks to the suburbs on the hill; To those distant twinkling streetlights, just beyond the mill. The puddles stream into my boots, lucky, they didn’t cost me dear, No wonder it’s raining, has been for most of the day; In fact, probably will for the rest of the year, But then, I doubt they’ve ever had it any other way. From one great building to the next, slowly falling into disrepair, How they could tell a tale, of foundries, steelworks and life; And of all those who once gathered there, How unrecognizable now, what sorrow, what strife. Yet the city hums to the tune of a new beat, The old guard...