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.