The Westgate Run.

 

Upon the Merrie Cities oldest street

when twilight creeps across the Yorkshire sky,

traditionally friends and strangers meet

and let the velvet darkness pass them by.

In pictures from a dim and distant past,

as gaslight spilled from heavy shadowed doors,

to neon tinted bars of Friday last

the sound of liquid laughter gently pours.

 

At seven, sharp, we meet in the Redoubt,

it’s crooked rooms are full of chiming talk.

then on to face our Waterloo and stout

as black as coal, to help us on our walk.

The White Hart next and sawdust ghosts afoot,

stiff, wooden chairs that creak like age old men.

A chimney spills authentic, ancient soot

that trails away in footsteps way back when.

 

Where Wagon and Horses were tethered tight

we drink and watch the youngsters on the baize -

full heads of hair and eyes a shiny bright,

no blood shot orbs and salt and pepper greys.

The Smiths Arms draws us to a blazing fire

that warms us from the hearth of cosy rooms

until we leave to climb towards the spire,

our breath explodes in will o’ the wisp plumes.

 

The Swan With Two Necks, changed yet one more time,

its stained glass windows gazing at the mill

forever etched against a sky in grime -

though long gone you can see its outline still.

Henry Boons is next with its straw thatched bar

where trendy student ambience abounds.

The walls are permeated with a tar

of funky, grungy, rocky, poppy sounds.

 

Under the railway bridge and cross the road,

the red bricked Elephant & Castle looms,

a place where time has permanently slowed

and memories are cobwebbed in the rooms.

Finally, back across the road to find

the Black Horse on the corner of my dreams

of a dim and distant past I left behind

supported from its old, oak timbered beams.

 

Perhaps these cobbled streets hold no surprise

to those who visit here upon a chance -

but living half my life beneath these skies

I hear the music, soft beneath the dance.

A century or more of stumbling feet

have traced this path from St. Micks to the Rock.

Good spirits open wide the doors to greet

the revellers of Wakefield when they knock.