Cold, grey. Stone boxes in a row.
Rooms of tears. Rooms of joy.
No one knows what happens behind the doors.
Mum. Dad. Sister. Little schoolboy.
Stories they could tell.

Forlorn, the chimney pots stand.
Once proud. Now obsolete.
Roof volcano extinct, singing a new song.
Old ways are changing, taking a backseat.
Stories they could tell.

Sash windows. The fresh air drawn in.
Sounds of laughter. Sighs of pain.
Windows on the world, one way mirror
Looking out and watching others
Behind the curtain saint or sinner?
Stories we could tell.

Cheek by jowl. Rows of brickwork.
Jammed in all together. Apart in every way.
Walk by the doors, glossy or in need of repair.
No one know what happens hidden away
Quiet and brooding. Safe in their lair.
Stories we should tell.

Wave to the neighbour. Avoid bad tempered cat.
Key in the lock. Turn and the world shuts behind.
Pick up the mail. Pour out the wine.
Gather around. Mum. Dad. Sister. Brother.
Together round the table, every night we will dine.
And stories we will tell.

View from ‘Ally Pally’


























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