"This poem is from a sequence of pieces about growing up in Prestwich just outside, what was at the time, the largest asylum in Europe where casual madness was the everyday"
The man died. He died alone.
Just walking, he fell down.
He lay dead in our field.
Where we built our dens
Deep and dank, mostly dark.
Where we played our games
Football, and cricket of course.
We rode our home made bikes
Around rough made tracks
We played tig, hide & seek and catch
Practised army manoeuvres
Against an enemy of our own
Learnt to string a bow, fire an arrow.
Use a club, shoot a gun.
The man died alone.
We told the copper, in unison.
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