There’s a cinema in the town,
A picture house, a flix,
And for the first time in thirty years
A big screen can be seen by walking to it,
And the train can be used for other things,
Although, no doubt, less people will choose to do so
And the station will close because of it;
Irony always requires a victim,
And on this occasion I may well be complicit
In providing one because I will promote this palace
With all my heart and soul until every King, Queen and pawn
Roll through its doors and are reborn.
And even if it moonlights as a
Theatre at the weekend
Its celluloid adventures are as welcome
As an old friend and as magical as memory recalls;
Its new canvas is as grand as any hanging, and its sound
As proud, and I don’t mind a play or two anyway.
Since I was younger than my daughter
My thoughts have wandered the stalls of a nostalgic fleapit,
With its back row communities,
And now I don’t need to envisage, just visit,
And she’ll have a place to take a date to someday,
Like they do in the movies.
For the Junction.