Liverpool.

Outside the rain splashed windows of the coach
The city went about the synchronised routines
Of week-a-day existence.
A crowd of schoolgirls, socks almost in the puddles,
Raised fingers and pulled faces as we passed,
And the occasional dog, ignoring awkward humans,
Dragged on the leash to find a reason to bark.
Once more I am back in Liverpool, the other city in my life,
But only for a moment, today just passing through
On the eight hour trek from Southport down to London,
From seaside posh to inner city smugness.
I like Liverpool in the rain, the dulling of the colours
As the grey clouds wash across the morning sky
Like muslin curtains drenched in dirty water.
Yes, I love the intimacy of the morning rain
Giving commuters a chance to curse and grumble
To neighbours they would otherwise not speak to,
And schoolgirls the right to shout and raise two fingers
To a coach full of people with sleepy faces.
This is the city where I learned to be a teenager,
Where, released from parental hindrance I wandered late
With my girlfriend through a blur of empty streets,
The clubs shut for the night, and the unseen ships
Wailing their mournful Siren Songs of longing,
A weird background music to our intimate talk,
And the occasional nifty snog in a darkened doorway.
I can`t go back to those times, they are far too long ago now,
And most of my boyhood friends are ash underground,
But Liverpool, you are still the blunt knife in my heart,
The deep red wound that, Thank God, can never be mended.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 26th. - 27th. 2019.   
For my friends who were in the Cavern when it was real.