At the crossroads of Blackhorse Lane

and Forest Road, past the ferry Inn

a long long walk to Spurs

undertaken with relish

along the railway wall that ran

across the marshes

trolleybus poles still in place

saturdays still smelled of fish,

chips in bags, the debris

like a paperchase.

 

The crittall - eyed walls

of Raelbrook shirts backed up

the multiple bus stops

where rain fell at timetable times,

and when evenings emptied their flats

the Royal Standard opened,

hot music, cabaret

tinsel fringed organ and drums.

 

Rodi's cafe handed down

with legacy of tiled surrounds

blowouts with grease and precision

five shillings a throw

I should know

I was there

 when 1970 was just a dare.