An old mind surrounded by new method
Hidden from the Irwell, my eyes a stinging pink
In November sun, Ordsall still slept
Stonework bordered by council brick.
Twenty-something miles from home
My hands a white against window panes
What is it about places of the past
Which turns the mind’s child from its restraints?
The Great Hall seemed bigger than before
Where a public slipped into the past
And looked in wonder at lights, the table set
Moving like dolls within a wooden house
The thrill of sight, of touch, enough again
No screen to show excitement in the blood
As we guide the tourism of childhood steps
Through the politics of growing old.