The heads are closed:

unsliced, uncarved, un-unscrewed.

The Way We Were Museum and

Wigan Pier turned to apartments

in pale red, pale yellow, pale blue.

Like my own block, like them all,

and is it bad that I don’t hate it?

 

It helps me to see those years

as distant, a fantasy, three heads

– stone, concrete? – on the side

of the mill taking turns to open:

slit like a baked spud, sliced

with a tin-opener, and did smoke

come out? Am I dreaming that?

​

There was definitely noise, a stone

rolled away, epic and gravelly.

It was theatrical. We would clamber

on the old equipment, winches

and such, sunk into the ground,

buy colourful erasers from the shop.

It was a stock family day out.

​

I never knew it was only

fifteen minutes’ walk. But then,

in Wigan, the canal is never far away.

My ex took an artsy photo of my head

lined up with theirs, was so pleased

with herself. It’s all quiet now,

all closed. Pigeons. No smoke.