Dead End

Whilst best known as a critic, Hobsbaum wrote his own poetry too. We once lodged in that street. The roofs Beetled over the kerb, Glooming the narrow sidewalk. There Kids kicked listlessly at stones Between parked cars And dogs went on their business round the steps Where slatterns rasped. It never offered much. Even the sun Died on the upper windows. But at the end, Like a stone curtain shutting off Another world, this wall. Beyond, green tops of trees Hinted at summer - almost we glimpsed Gables, pinnacles, domes, Even could guess at lawns Sloping to tinkling streams, Striplings at tennis, lithe girls sipping drinks ...