The Number Ten

17 Nov

The Number Ten bus

would take us into town.

A gang of little urchins

with nothing to do,

on long, hot days

when the dusty streets

of Liverpool offered

only dust for play.

While seagulls watched

with eyebrows raised,

we’d giggle and invade,

The Walker Art Gallery, for free.

Running up and down

ornate stairwells

and through

opulent rooms of

chilled Leonardos,

rude Reubens,

and mad Van Goghs.

Saint Sebastian

on the landing, would

grimace down at us

Wincing at his

arrow infested torment.

Then we’d take a ferry

to New Brighton;

sixpence for the trip

across the Mersey.

At the other side, we’d hide

until the ferry turned

and made the journey back

for free.

A bag of chips

would keep us going

as we watched the River

stage its daily show.

Then at the Pier Head,

we’d jump the Number Ten

and twopence

took us home again.

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