The slope lies bleak and empty
But for beer cans and used condoms
Tossed from the churchyard path above,
No sound of boots in rhythm pounding
Down the road to likely death,
No echoes of Pack Up Your Troubles or
It’s a Long way to Tipperary
To compete with shrieking seagull,
Duffy’s “quiet road” lives up to its name.
Crippling, cracked, steep steps
Still wind down to the promenade,
Past nettles, brambles and bushes
And brazen corner ketamine deals;
On twisted railings and fences
Once proud scarlet poppies
Are now tattered and greying
Like the graves of those who
Never got to climb the road again.
The restoration of Dickens’ joyful view
From Albion Villas is scant consolation
For this scene of desolation;
Thirty months closed now,
The promise of money is there
And that work will commence soon,
But there are as many labourers here today
As there are soldiers marching to their fate.
I stand here waiting for the next landslip
To forestall those plans for renovation.
Tony Quarrington 