Parkgate, on the Wirral, I remember well, one could see <br />Wales, in the haze, a cross the bay, sheep and closed- <br />down factories. Cute fishing boat s with brown sail used <br />to dock here selling fresh shrimps, but the tide left one <br />day and didn’t come back; they can dredge, no point <br />though, there aren’t any shrimps left in the sea. I saw <br />this man dressed in yellow leaning against a red Jaguar, <br />looked prosperous, perhaps he was the lord mayor of <br />Hardcastle? There is a name that keeps enter my mind, <br />who is Tommy Steele, didn’t he used to be a singer? <br /> <br />Two ice-cream parlours Parkgate had, a line of people <br />outside one them the other was empty; me, a defender <br />of lost causes, walked into the deserted one, asked for <br />two scoops of strawberry ice-cream, too late, bile had <br />destroyed him and the ice was rock hard, a scoop fell <br />off and rolled on the floor, picking up fluff and dust. <br />There was a retirement home as well, asked for a place, <br />but as usual I was too late, the man in with the jaguar <br />lives there now, I live very far away and see Parkgate <br />in a mist of erratic memories; so who is Tommy Steele?<br /><br />jan oskar hansen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tommy-steele-and-parkgate/
