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heeley (sheffield) autumn 1988 dodging the broken bottles dog-shit the pavement spew i wheel my young son matthew through the heeley streets shop to shop this early morning (short of milk) unsettled day - the sun comes through the clouds in ragged strips where windy rain has had the night to puff and piddle puddles idle in the dips of surfaces neglected for decades another place where caring's lost a public vision only detritus of hope dares poke its battered visage out of doors no pride here on pavements what's local's long been squashed - wealth's dogs prefer more stately avenues to piss up the air is fresh i'm moving briskly getting a lift from my negotiating skills take a buggy on two wheels to skirt a sudden pool a twirl past faeces - a kind of hop-scotch over jags of milky glass - and come to stop on a hillside where slopes of grass drop sleekly on what were backs of houses i'm out of breath a darkness ripples past my eyes and knocks on my unfitness i am locked for one brief aeon as a rock that's held its place upon this hill inscrutably a wildness explodes from every blade of grass i touch upon deep springs (a healing flow upsurging through the shit and glass the torn-down homes) my body's lapped - my old eyes washed of dirt a comb's gone through the landscape at my feet the muck's redeemed a larger time lets nothing be what is but everything is used for what is coming today-defunct breeds trees that bloom tomorrow nothing's next step on is one - what's poor is where new worlds are just beginning - the shit spew glass the death of hope have done their time (cartons which the future's thrown away as minds and spirits snout amongst the refuse seeking forms to dress their fresh selves in) the meek are gathered in millions on this hill disparaged destitute of any say in this dead time as others roll their tongues round easy riches but here's the future too - a start of ages a cry whose agony's a pinprick or a seedling a drib of red and green the statute's blind to across the valley sheffield snarls itself to this day's life its smoke-tuned buildings boxed-in by the past (upheavals mortised in its joints make it confused) for all its roar it slumbers through its present wanting its glory back the talk of its old workers flawed with steely pride (that stainless stain) there's no dawn there - its power and wealth have long borne all its sons away it's in the detritus i stand in (in this mix of race and stymied passion heeley has become - and all such cast-off cesspits of our dreams) the not-yet written songs of human dignity are not yet being sung the shudder leaves me i'm just this oldish man with his youngest son pushing a buggy through scarred heeley streets more concerned to get no shit upon the wheels than to hold a sand-grain to the world and turn its atoms inside out i'll not live to see the newlaid honest pavements going down and houses have that look within their glass that sings of confidence-returned i push on up the hill (to where my oldest son has done his house up) once more safely in the compound of my aging flesh talking with matthew playing buggy games triumphant only that after so many sorry shops i'd found one that did sell milk - the morning cup of tea reclaimed the real world put to rights
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