I started writing this about 18 months ago. It was kind of a cross between prose and poetry - see below. I'd dropped the car off at a garage first thing and was walking home in that part of the morning just after 9 o'clock when shops are opening and the streets are fairly quiet. For those who know Lancaster, this poem starts past the Storey on Market Street and goes through town heading up to Scotforth.
Walking Home
The independent card shop is no more
The book shop lies empty behind closed doors
A woman puts a plant pot outside a charity shop
The security guard wishes he was working as a cop
A man sits on a bench reading the Mirror or the Mail
In the other book shop the staff hope their branch won’t fail
The windows have been cleaned at the coffee shop
And water drips down inviting the use of a mop
On Penny Street the barber shop has empty chairs
The barber stands looking outside, with a vacant stare
A man in a wheelchair comes out of the small supermarket
He goes straight onto the road and stops, but not to park it.
I look to the skies for swallows or swifts but there
are none
A bus to Blackpool passes me in the morning sun
Another bus, which I could have waited for, goes past me
But I'm almost home now and there’s nothing more to see.
CMB 02/02/2023
A woman puts a plant pot outside a charity shop
The security guard wishes he was working as a cop
In the other book shop the staff hope their branch won’t fail
The windows have been cleaned at the coffee shop
And water drips down inviting the use of a mop
The barber stands looking outside, with a vacant stare
A man in a wheelchair comes out of the small supermarket
He goes straight onto the road and stops, but not to park it.
A bus to Blackpool passes me in the morning sun
Another bus, which I could have waited for, goes past me
But I'm almost home now and there’s nothing more to see.
****************
This was the original thing I wrote after getting home that day. See which you prefer.
The card shop is now an estate agents
The book shop lies empty
The butchers now sells Indian food
A woman puts a plant pot outside the door of a charity shop
A man sits on a bench, face screwed up reading a tabloid
The security guard gives me a look as I walk past
I'm the only customer in the other book shop that remains open
The coffee shop has just had its windows cleaned
And water drips down from the top of the door
I walk on
I double back onto Penny Street
Barber shops are open but with no customers inside
The church is getting a food delivery
A woman wheels a man in a wheelchair out of Sainsburys
Straight onto the road
He removes his face mask
A man with a bicycle waits patiently to cross the road
A group of young women walk past me, one has ripped jeans
A woman stares at her phone while her kid plays in the park
Two joggers run past on either side of the road
One smiles at me as he runs past
I look to the skies for swifts but there are none
A bus to Blackpool passes me
Another, which I could have waited for, passes me but
I'm almost home
The book shop lies empty
The butchers now sells Indian food
A woman puts a plant pot outside the door of a charity shop
A man sits on a bench, face screwed up reading a tabloid
The security guard gives me a look as I walk past
I'm the only customer in the other book shop that remains open
The coffee shop has just had its windows cleaned
And water drips down from the top of the door
I walk on
I double back onto Penny Street
Barber shops are open but with no customers inside
The church is getting a food delivery
A woman wheels a man in a wheelchair out of Sainsburys
Straight onto the road
He removes his face mask
A man with a bicycle waits patiently to cross the road
A group of young women walk past me, one has ripped jeans
A woman stares at her phone while her kid plays in the park
Two joggers run past on either side of the road
One smiles at me as he runs past
I look to the skies for swifts but there are none
A bus to Blackpool passes me
Another, which I could have waited for, passes me but
I'm almost home
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