October In Liverpool

From Mount Pleasant,

with my back

to the modern face

of the old religion,

I traverse Hope Street

focused on the Anglican

sandstone mountain

looming in the distance.

I pass by Everyman,

while a benevolent lady

gazes down on me

from across the street

with her unbroken,

century-long, lithic stare.

I press on,

past Hope Street theatre

where the plays of tomorrow

are dreamt today,

while opposite, the White Hart

continues to dispense pints

as in decades passed.

Maybe I will treat myself

to refreshment in the Philharmonic,

amid the Victorian

woodwork and wainscoting

or perhaps pause, by the statue

of Hugh Stowell Brown:

educate myself once more

about the city’s illustrious past.

At the junction with Hardman

I glance downhill, to the river

and the distant Liver birds,

stoically staring out to sea.

I consider stepping inside

the Philharmonic Hall

see what is scheduled,

but instead wonder

what the fake stone relief

on the LMA, truly is.

As for the stone head, considering me

from the building opposite,

I’m sure he was once

the consort of the Queen.

From posh student residents

to educating women

Hope Street has it all,

though while I pick my way

through petrified suitcases

I wonder what McCarney makes

of LIPA today.

As I turn the corner

and face my destination,

I am struck

by the first, moist missiles

released by an incoming

flight of clouds.

I draw forward my hood

place my shoulder to the weather

and plough on,

to the over-sized doors

and the warm

welcome within.