I am the industrial estate
and the factory chimney
stretching its fingers to the skies,
by the grey misery of the
Manchester Ship Canal.
I am the late-night, last bus home,
where a drunken sing-song
could lead to a punch-up
or a Donner kebab
the size of a roll of carpet.
I am the coat zipped up tight
to your chin, hood pulled up,
head down as you march along
through the driving Northern rain.
I am shock of the cold-water
splash as the double-decker bus
ploughs though the puddle
soaking you to the skin.