Trying to put your finger on why you feel a fondness for the The Archway.
Is tied in with why you find something ever so wholesome about shopping in The Coop.
Or admire the Big Issue seller as she stands through thick rain and biting cold.
Trying to put your finger on your fondness for Archway should be a rainy day game.
But it’s sunny outside the friendly Archway cafe window.
And i’m playing it all the same.
Earlier but still dark.
Whilst waiting to cross The Holloway Road.
Waiting with just a touch of worry.
Un a costumed as i am to being surrounded by traffic cones.
And thin one person width walkways.
Earlier but still dark.
Whilst waiting and hoping that drivers would see, and feel.
The need to stop for me, and the old lady too cross to say. It ruins her day.
Un a costumed as we are for fake crossings, makeshift green men!
Moveable bus stops and sludge.
Anyway whilst waiting to cross The Holloway no mans land.
Well I spotted with an eye not looking out for the safety of my life.
And I include the old lady she was safe in my vicinity.
I saw a sign saying:
“Workers Cafe still open!”
As i waited as i mentioned before.
I pondered and wondered wanting to be sure.
Where oh where i wondered.
Did the men repairing the The Holloway Road bridge.
Have their breakfast….
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
The wheel barrow derby still brings a tear to my Aunty Betty’s glass eye if they get it wrong.
Sacrifice shows it’s face in many ways, very similar to my Aunty Betty’s multi sided darts trophy that sits proud on my uncle Brian’s south facing sideboard.
Seeing is not at all as feeling is as tall she said gracefully accepting the by now tarnished trophy.
I suspect still reeling from our prophacy fulfilling failed passionate encounter up the woods as I recalled watching, forever in awe, her pushing with dire disapointment the Mini van for four miles or more.
As i had to later painfully recall.
Seeing as if i was still there. The mini van being pushed through a really wet wood, with me in shock but with my sense of humour, virginity and innocence intact and safe in it’s hallowed however small and damp dark deeply disturbing interior.
Well it brought it all back along with the smell of the Danish bracken.
When i was as sad as now.
I didn’t know how.
I came to the point.
Again to feel the fright of feeling.
And question and blame.
And cry at the same point of pain.
That being wrong touches again.
And again, but this is the place you left your coat? The time before! On the back of the door .