A nameless cardboard box lays there barren in the room.
Where the walls are painted with formal magnolia hues.
Thoughts had once swirled in through the opened windows
removing the curried stench that would now bring forth
memories of Bradford'�'The Paris of the North.'

A city, not so much a shire replete with wool mills and
ashen face migrants from the Steppes of Karachi, descending
in droves to serve kiln baked nans to an English palate.

Gulf GTIs drag-racing at neck jarring speeds
back and forth, through Great Horton Lane. The croak of
the hoodlum's exhausts truncated like a baritone, but
sounding nothing like the melodic beats of Mr. Davis.

The Sun has shone many days in this town; a haven known
for it's dreariness. It wasn't that bad I like to tell others'�
I guess my friends don't understand. The heart likes to sit
down once in a while and savour his environment.

A feeling that there was little to do in a place that has failed
thrice to win 'The City of Culture' accolade;
the only claim to fame is that the Bronte's have strolled
with gingerly steps through the moorland.

I remember taping up the lips of my last belongings.
Sealing six years of my memories and hauling them through
three stories of dank steps that creaked as strongly as when
I arrived'�some landlords you just have to love!

Such a strange feeling to leave what was so familiar,
to know that in thirty minutes I will be no more
within the boundaries of the city.

No man to deliver milk to my doorstep
or stacking endless tomes in the bookshop
and the streets will not harbour people who
say 'Alright duck how are you.'�

Time to move to another place, with another name
as if I were to prepare for new memories. But I will
never forget the Vindaloo'd smog that will aerate my Lungs with fondness'�

Off I go at last.

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