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Old I thought at his boyhood
address
hearing the distress of silence
where people dwell in privacy
like most of haunted London Town
no Aussie dust or spirit rising there
now a muted tone where he had grown.
A gent unlocking
a hardtop M.G.
avoided eye contact with me
a habit I had noticed on the Tube.
No vacant parking spots in sight
nor many signs of a working-class past
just remembered black and white photographs.
At the bleak
school I pictured him
grubby knees coal smoke in the air
asphalt soccer a Cockney ghost.
Autumn evening had frayed to twilight
when a jet roar louder than most
a Jumbo’s shadow stretched across the sky
marked years
of change on the narrow street
and those serried images I saw
ranks of chimneys tramp of workers’ feet.
I watched its lights blink towards Heathrow
hunched into my thoughts headed for a pint
at the pub named for a battle long ago.
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