1979
Break time. Out of the staff room window through
The fug of pipes and cigarettes
The landscape of industrial decline
Has empty smokeless chimneys signal debts
To history that never will be paid
Except by demolition. Cleanliness
Of plate glass far prefers the playing fields
Whose straight white lines mean to impress.
But as exhaust-filled smog rolls in, it seems
The goalposts move. What do we hear?
‘She’s right, the country needs…’ What, modernise?
As teeth gripped pipes, what was the fear?
