The real estateThey say the high street is dying,
Closing for business every day,
From corner shop to sad café,
Only the bleak building is for sale.
But these shells were once homes,
Where people lived and thrived,
And in their energy and enterprise
Grew the kernel of a family business.
From single loaf to baker's dozens,
From small beer to bulging butts,
From lowly rags to lofty ribbons,
From rusty nails to shiny pins.
The making and the mending
Knitted communities together,
The movement of co-operation
Progressed entire generations.
They say the high street is dying,
But outside the empty shops
Sleep the cardboard people
Dreaming, dreaming of going home.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 38 times
Written on 2018-10-09 at 13:30
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