one, two polished leather shoe set the beat,
marks the grey tone on the broken cobbled street.
three, four silent tears pour down the face
making widows lace of the sullen slaggy place.
five, six, the count fades to mix with the collective sound
of doors unbolting and the sight of chins taking to ground,
and busy hands stilled to lay respect like paving slabs.
The tall terraces stained with iron ore stoop to kiss the head
of another working class warrior fallen to soon to his bed.
Smoke billowing from cooling towers lays low - scent of '64
dousing wreaths in docker's sweat, a local hero's glow.
The final home leaving, with no kiss from his wife,
in the fanciest car he's been in in his life.
He never expected nor asked life for much,
a job in the docks, the works - a trade or such;
four walls and a roof to sit over his head,
a wife to share his heart, his life and his bed;
a family with whom to laugh and to cry,
not striving for riches, just to get by.
Happy and sated through much of his years,
counting his laughter so much more than his tears,
call him unambitious, plain if you will,
but how many die having had their fill?
Top hat and tails, 53 steps taken and checked
one for each year lived, a mark of respect.