Birmingham, damp, soaking wet

And I feel the

Rain

Teem and rinsing at

My every pore

But welcoming me back with open arms

In greeting to a prodigal son

As I leave the bright modern station

Of New Street.

The autumn darkness shields me

Like an roughly made cloak and I remain invisible

To all who once played like I

In the Costermonger’s basement. The sound of an air guitar

Straining at the leash as the crash of a new beat

Hit our 14 year old minds.