Beneath the beacon that sends ballistic signals out

In search of a home, or at least to reside for a moment

Before the dial turns with frustrated voice ready to shout

That the voices they hear are not those Heaven sent

Near the place where an audience waits

Inside and outside for the theatre of life

To show a production of 24 hours over 365 dates

Through laughter, anger, sorrow and strife

Where McGough’s words runs and pumps and splutters

Crowning the brave and the humour-led with

The Mersey water that they know is their own

Where the busking guitar player with three strings strums and mutters

Of songs designed somehow to urge to live

I sit in on the side of the square and I know this is their home.

Ian D. Hall