Return Of The Telegram Boy Circa 1962 Poem by James Tipp

Sunday mornings of my youth flash back
White helmet, yellow gloves, motorbike all red
Delivery for the London Docks pier nine.
Deserted streets, silent, no traffic, nobody.
Pass high brick walls, windows set high,
Filthy dirty glass, the ruins made by bombs
Scar the dockland landscape of Limehouse,
China Town source of much imagination
Deserted on this Sabbath day of rest.

So here I stand, returning to my past
The Rotherhithe steps are all that’s left
With their tiled lavatorial walls
All else is new and vibrant, stunning.
Through Narrow Street to the Isle of Dogs
Unrecognisable, here the Thames becomes transformed
The sun sets on the skyline, the scene majestic
My memories fade in this picture of beauty
Autumnal colours, light the sky I am transformed

Waterfront houses line the farther bank
Whilst here the cycles move with ease
Joggers pant their way along the waters edge,
Lovers sit beneath the giants of glass,
Soft romantic light shines up from the pavement
Wine is sipped, waterbus stir the river
The transformation is for real, Cinderella
You are at the ball and the clock has stopped.