That’s Wakefield out the window,
kept between four corner walls
landing flat and rising tall,
this is how it walks and that’s the way it goes
and its red brick timber lined walls
are pieced back together
with a forever piece of wire tether.

That same wire would have led down
back streets and alleyways,
turning into a hardened mess of grey lined,
grey hound steel,
that ran around as tracks for the trams,
the Chantry Chapel couple
waiting patiently with their pram
to cross the street,
to cross the bridge,
to get back home-
put the milk in the fridge.

I can hear you cry, Wakefield
your calls are cast so near.
I can hear you cry Wakefield,
your fear distilled within the hum of the traffic outside,
spilled onto the road deaf and dead,
caught within the grooves of another tyre's tread.