'The Pool Of Life' Poem by Neil Crawford

The object of my love, this mudlark town,
illegitimate, pupped by the whorish deep,
hemmed in by England's stale surround
and the 'baas' of slavish, mindless sheep.

A shotgun groom for the pregnant Earth,
pressed yet freed by the singing sea,
mindful of the country's worth
and scornful of its destiny.

Phoenix like will the symbol rise
to fan the flames from the glowing town
and its people will call to believing skies..
'you'll never grind this spirit down! '.