Salford, 9th June 2020
Some say it’s the colour of conkers
after they’ve fallen out of shell
Some say it’s the colour of leather
it’s difficult to tell….
For while its not brown, its most definately not red
its more colour of the cows in the field that are fed
or their hides on the soles of the shoes in the street
covering ladies or gentlemen’s feet
Or perhaps the jacket, that strolls in to town
some shades of this colour – don’t suit a ball gown
the answer you see – to this definite riddle
the maroon colour – is somewhere in the middle
Salford, 15th September
I recall a leather chair
the smell of it as I sat in it in the morning
it’s sound as I got my back into its folds
it squeaked – like a mouse looking for food
Looking out beyond the glass
in a warm seat
looking out for snowmen
beyond the garden fence
Sitting there quietly
watching the snowflakes
fall to the ground
whilst warming my hands on a hot mug
Salford 23rd September 2018
I remember the day i first bought them,
fresh out of the box and smelling like they’d just come out of the factory
They fitted my feet nicely, but i’d been told i needed to break them in
so over the next few days – i wore them in the house
as i got the feel of them i took them down the Trafford Road
getting them wet in a Greater Manchester rain storm
being well waxed – it didnt effect them for a while
time however is a fickle thing – and my shoes have lost their hardened exterior
My slippers look on in envy, as my feet feel comfy in the broken down softness
wont be long before a trip to the shoe shop – and a rendezvous with the recycle bin
These Boots Were Made for Walking
In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. And if their owner were truthful – they could do with a bit of a clean. The hooks holding the laces crusted with dirt, their leather is worn from the passing of time having seen many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.
But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.
Rugby Boots and Training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.
They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, and leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.
Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.