In the Willows (Part two)

It's not the Lady of the lake
still looking for her lover,
or Cromwell's blood stone
that turns red on foggy nights.

It's not even the lost boys
thought drowned at Hi-field Moss,
summer swimming in the flashes.
No it's something more basic,

a feeling that speaks from each street
every cut through and dark back ally,
where each open plot will lead you
and how to escape into green fields.

We grew like skeletons from it's dust
born ready to fight, latch-key kids
out every night under street lights,
controlled by the sound of ice cream vans,

called in for tea by our Mams.
Plans mapped out future designs
that were lost in dandruff and greasy hair.
I still go back there, but I dont stay long,

too many old songs that would
lure this sailor to stay with the Mermaids
and play them a tune or two.