Photo by Illiya Vjestica on Unsplash

The adders of the south are missing here,
but there’s venom a-plenty
the poison of coal, oil and unfettered toil.
This is the land of swarfega! 
The men mess with their cars after work, 
while there’s light; 
cars bought for a fiver a time, at the auction, 
done up, they was.
It’s ten years since the last 
of the prisoners of war came home.
 It is 1955 and Elvis is king: no swinging 60s,
no Haight Ashbury, no algorithm.
In the north country of stark
sheep-ridden smoke-stained villages
folk are in no hurry to meet
the future.