The Grand Parade

Not much architecture left to fade
On the once Grand Parade;
Some carved stone still remains
Between the window sills,
Gutters, and drains,
But we barely notice it
In this day and age –
Above, the skyway.
Below, the road rage.
Shouts, fights, nights out,
Indoor domestics,
And other common sights;
On the streets, maybe,
A teenage mother and her baby,
A lost boy,
An early-morning-can man,
Dirty pavement life
Even in the summer sun
Or when everybody else
Is happy.
This goes on, and on,
Like a boring old relative
To the ears of a twenty-one
Year old;

So many years
These stones have seen.
Dream after dream after dream.
History in the making,
The changing ways
Of giving and taking,
The changing ways
Of trade –
People working fingers
To the bone,
To live in the shithole
That has evolved around this stone.
Some people never make the grade,
And spend their lives
Walking the street
Beneath the Grand Parade.

 

 

(picture coming soon...)