STALEY BRIDGE STALYBRIDGE
this is Staley bridge
my father’s birthplace
here is a picture
of me in a pram
my sister
in a pram
on a big bridge
crossing the Tame river
this is not
that Staley bridge where
the Saxons crushed the
Vikings
rushing back to
meet my
Norman ancestors at Hastings
and we
know what happened there
****
Yes, here we are
up front Mossley
in that picture, my
Mother
daughter of a war hero
pushing our pram
and there, no doubt,
the great cotton mills
still
doing their job though
not now in
their hey day
postmodernity,
postcoloniality
what landscape altering modes
of production ushered
in in
their wake
and here is Engels incliding
text on this place in his seminal
work on
the working class
in England
and here I am
years later, studying satire living
in his monument house
in Oxford Street Manchester
water
under this bridge, water
connecting
us all
Tipperary, Stalybridge,
Mahikeng South Africa
figures
in a Lowry paintimg
they come
and they go
water
under this bridge then
so much water we
tend to
forget about
water headed
to the port of slavery
same water in the skiffle
psychedelia of those
Sergeant Pepper people
magicians of the airwaves
conjurors of
a whole new
line
in identity
fruit of the clash of
working class proclivities
with
transcendental
mind
clash, I say,
but what a melding, beloved
blending
without which
no way this space, or place,
or room
to talk
gone these guys
or finally fading
gone
those mills of my childhood
Spitfire stories
of how
we stood alone
everything reconfigured,
outright repurposed
voices (and their words)
I fail to recognise, alien
strange
elevated above whilst
so out of frame
somehow talking all
necessities of suppression
commandeering everything
stretching
the distance below
to above
to breaking point
viewed from
the Southern tip of Africa, product
victim of
all that this is metonym of
all this place
this life
of which
I speak
ths
shock
could not be more
extreme
(so dark
these river with
their druid name
we cross
all our lives
each
every day
so quietly all
determining)