URBAN RENEWAL

The bulldozers tore down Canal Street today,
These centuries old terraced homes.
The Luftwaffe couldn't have wreaked more havoc -
They're reduced to a pile of stones.

The government describe it as "Urban Renewal:
Improvements for Better Lives"
But tradition they've thoughtlessly stolen this day
From generations of Lancashire wives.

Amongst the rubble and rising dust
A frail old lady appears.
She seems to be searching for something important,
As she's so distressed and in tears.

I try to lead her away to safety,
But she kneels to reach beneath
The broken stairs and window frames
To retrieve a Christmas wreath.

It's plastic, faded and squashed almost flat,
But she holds it lovingly close
To her bosom as if it were a child.
Then she turns to me looking morose.

"My Harry bought this the year we were wed,
In nineteen-forty-three,
And it's hung in our closet ever since - this token
Of his undying love for me.

When I lost him in France the following year,
Through this I felt him near.
Then when they came to evict me, I left
My precious memento here.

Things must change I understand that,
But the sorrow is almost too much.
For they've moved me into a brand new flat
Where I've never felt Harry's touch."