On the west cheek of a town's unpainted face, a mole in the shape of an abandoned tower block stands and surveys all the veins and dead skin at its base, there's a cycle path system that never tires, heels stuck in white, blue and gold Converse shoe marched through, then flew down those tarmac miles, every number on the clock face must have held a hand for the times when I ran full pelt, after nights out, to save cash, but also to stay alive, as the magic would ***** out once my key found the jagged and hollow black hole it was designed to enter, so I danced with horses, sleepwalking all morning.
Poem #28 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. This is a bittersweet poem about my hometown. I have to remind myself of the tough times I spent there whenever I look back at my youth with grandeur and contemplate going back.