In Bradford Place <br />Beneath the towering cenotaph that stands, <br />The taxis wait, <br />Patiently, <br />All queued within a line. <br /> <br />Each wears a coat of midnight black <br />That shines like new with polished chrome, <br />Their amber signs 'For Hire' are lit <br />Like beacons as they glow. <br /> <br />The drivers lean against the wall <br />To pass the dragging time away, <br />Laughing, <br />Joking, <br />And talking there amongst themselves. <br /> <br />I listen yet can't understand <br />A single word that they do say <br />It seems so out of place <br />Within this town I call my home. <br /> <br />An old lady seated all alone <br />Upon the bench beside the road, <br />Does quietly reads her Mills & Boon <br />And wipes away a tear. <br /> <br />And as she stare upon the page <br />She takes a sandwich from her bag, <br />Then takes a small and nimble bite <br />And slowly starts to chew. <br /> <br />The pigeons gather round her feet <br />Whilst pecking at the fallen crumbs, <br />Which lie upon the pavement <br />And they never seem to stray. <br /> <br />From Bradford place <br />As buses crammed with shoppers come and go, <br />Beneath the skies that threaten rain <br />And offer little hope.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bradford-place/
