I thought my church was black
‘cause it was
But it wasn’t really
What I was looking at was grime
Soot coal dust grit in the air
Despair
Industrial Lancashire was what I saw
And lived in
Foggy mornings
Frosty days
Breath blown grey in wintry air
Women’s coats with cotton fluff
Miners’ faces black enough
To leave you wondering
Who were that?
Phlegmy coughs
You couldn’t cut
Growling chests
Heaving stuff
Smoking ciggies right enough
But cheery people nonetheless
Kindly folk I confess
Give you what they hadn’t got
And then some
Life them days
Was lived in common
Front doors open
Children playing
In the street
Till it’s time for tea
Life was coal and cotton them days
All gone now
As in a heat haze
Shimmering figures
Fade into a mist
My church
It isn’t black at all
It’s rubble sandstone
Cream and pink
A fine example Early English
A pretty church it really is
Tha knows
Standing there on Tyldesley Road
A dear old parish God’s abode
Only trouble is
It’s closed
Brian Fahy
31 May 2021
Erris Poetry 