One day you won’t be here to tell
of the red-brick school down Albion Row,
where you were schooled, and your dad before,
standing sentinel over the Tyne,
side-eyeing our bridge,
the Victorian clock ticking smugly on,
as if time won’t end;
and hop-scotch marks fade into dust,
sepia faces, grazed knees,
window poles, the whiff of wood,
blending with my own mind’s eye, of Anaglyptaed books
and facts best left buried,
before the modern muscled his way in,
bland in purpose, brash in look,
fresh frontage secreting the crumpled face of a child,
fighting not to cry,
while the clock, indifferent,
stops its steady tick,
its story done.
Amanda Ellison
