Tram Sunday in Fleetwood


A photo-opportunity, or so the yearly excuse goes.
It’s not. It’s lots of boring bikes and painted swings lined up in rows,
And in between the bobbing, sweaty heads you might just glimpse a car
With shiny bumpers. Or a truck. It’s all one anorak too far
For me. I never felt the thrill of pink Capris or black Corvettes,
And, judging by their faces, nor did anybody else…and yet
We come back every single year, attracted by the stalls of books
On trams and trains and buses that aren’t really worth a second look.
Or Dinky toys still in their boxes. Pristine nick. They’re worth a bomb
Amongst the anally retentive. Relentlessly we soldier on
Between the fairground rides and buskers, baking in the heat of noon,
Their music spat in gobs of sound drowned out by Barrel Organ tunes,
And kids on ancient roundabouts, and Punch and Judy on the hour,
A ‘Hook a Duck and Win a Cheap Toy’ stall beneath St Peter’s tower,
And Batman’s car, sans Adam West, and “Wasn’t that one Del Boy’s, look?”
The gap where once Fred Dibnah sat, with his steam engine, signing books,
And playing music, of a sort, on instruments he’s made at home,
The one redeeming feature of some cheerful bloke stood on his own.
I take the photo, nod my head, politely wait until the tune
Has finished, not sure what it was, and then head home to make a brew.

14 responses to “Tram Sunday in Fleetwood

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