Old Lad is whispering across the wolds,

scuttling in black across the slate.

Waiting in the woods.

The commuters criss-cross the marshland;

a ritual.

And then back to their homes,

glowing in the black fog,

throbbing with television news and

documentary warnings.

 

Old Lad walks the tarmac of the new roads

and rattles the wheelie bins in the wind.

The old pub is just as full of fear,

full of the dead;

some things never change.

 

Old Lad whispers in the ears of those at the bar 

and at the urinal trough

as they whistle,

and blows cold air through the hatch window

where cars crunch on the gravel 

and rearrange the dust.

They’re coming for what you have 

mumbles Old Lad 

as heavy heads with heavy legs repeat 

and frown 

and pray with white knuckles on the steering wheel.

 

By midnight 

the estate falls quiet.

Old Lad treads the cut-throughs 

behind the fresh laid fencing 

and seeds the dreams 

of restless nowhere men.