Heanor

Do you believe in ghosts?
They say there’s a lady,
a spirit wandering at night.
At St Lawrence’s Church, she hides.
Across from the market,
dressed in white.
Across from the charity shops.
The takeaways.
Across from the bookies
where punters pay to win.
A small fortune. A quick quid or two.
Feeling lucky, on Market street
where Heanor grew.
 
A smell of burning in the air.
Cigarettes. That’s the scent it carries,
from the wanderers of Heanor,
shuffling through their nightmares.
Their giving-up lungs,
chapped lips,
bitten-down finger tips.
And the gravel filling their shoes,
from rough patches in the street,
and the ditches,
where Charlie skinned her knee.
 
And there’s a charcoal sky,
at eight usually,
when the kids come out.
Not kids like me and Charlie,
kids who dare tread the grounds
of St Lawrence with,
the cider they bought.
Twelves cans of Woodpecker
for the tenner they nicked
off Jack’s mam.
 
If only they could waste,
where locals go to brood –
up Tag Hill or down,
then the parks would not be used.
Flowers, grass. No broken glass,
or used protection of men –
or women of that matter.
And children would play at noon.
 
We’re an army of dreamers,
in the news.
Community, hope and chest tattoos.
And Crest of the Wave
on the one-way street,
releasing vinegar fumes.
A mouth-watering reminder of,
Heanor’s hunger. Heanor’s bruise.