VIEW OF THE TERRACE.

If someone could direct me to a street where I could stand, cobbles beneath my feet tearful with rain; the shadows of my hopes behind the stained- glass windows of a pub, ghosts - I would turn up the collar of my coat, walk, number each small, terraced house by heart: birthplace; neighbours - hardman, hussy, haridan, hustler, hero, heroine - threshold, bride and groom as clueless of next year as Christmas Eve; or exit-place, a hearse, a raw and local grief...then I'd retrace my steps, perhaps a baby's cry sharp as a sudden star nailed to the sky, to stand now in this backstreet bar, nursing a beer, all my griefs, my gifts, and glad I live here.