In Bradford Place
Beneath the towering cenotaph that stands,
The taxis wait,
Patiently,
All queued within a line.
Each wears a coat of midnight black
That shines like new with polished chrome,
Their amber signs 'For Hire' are lit
Like beacons as they glow.
The drivers lean against the wall
To pass the dragging time away,
Laughing,
Joking,
And talking there amongst themselves.
I listen yet can't understand
A single word that they do say
It seems so out of place
Within this town I call my home.
An old lady seated all alone
Upon the bench beside the road,
Does quietly reads her Mills & Boon
And wipes away a tear.
And as she stare upon the page
She takes a sandwich from her bag,
Then takes a small and nimble bite
And slowly starts to chew.
The pigeons gather round her feet
Whilst pecking at the fallen crumbs,
Which lie upon the pavement
And they never seem to stray.
From Bradford place
As buses crammed with shoppers come and go,
Beneath the skies that threaten rain
And offer little hope.
ANDREW BLAKEMORE
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bradford-place/
