Midland Road

What goes on behind those black doors on Midland road?

A faint boom and bass,

The song of licentiousness.

Heavy girls bare their breasts,

Young professionals drink and de-stress.


Meanwhile next door,

An old lady tries to go to bed.

She thinks of her youth and dead husband.

She scuffles round a box of memories,

And finds and old suede notebook,

She reads a poem she wrote forty years ago:


“Bristol’s young men have come to play again,

To have their foolish hearts massaged.

Don’t they know, one woman is a fountain,

A dozen is a mirage.”