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Time’s slight footsteps are ahead of me here

out beyond my vision but not my touch.

The walk is straight almost a true arrow,

my eyes telescopes to a boarding house

and a twenties life you post carded back

to Lochee and a little Ireland.

It’s near the beach although you couldn’t swim.

Jute Baron Gothic mansions up the hill

leave maybe not ghosts and fibres of the 

said richest square mile in Britain once.

Did you climb walls and gaze on kicked footballs?

Or run play timeless games at Castle Green

available for children’s laughter then

after carnage and the Western Front?

Back and forth I go round the never said.

It’s a noiseless noise now in long Long Lane

but not as noiseless as a well kept grave.

I sense you here in some boarding house

in ‘the’ ferry but abroad, a kicked ball

from a forget me not railway station.

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