On my second day in Bootle, an old man,

withered looking but comfortable in his stride

and his shoulders resolutely swaggering

towards recruitment, came up to me as I breathed in

a different town’s air and asked from underneath

his floating pencil gray moustache, which side

of the divide

did I belong?

 

“Divide”? I enquired, naturally thinking red or blue

or what was it she said, they also play up the road don’t they

in a different colour, or of course this could be a Wirral