It was an old shed.
Worriers would not enter,
Or if they did,
They would clutch their children’s hands
And be hurriers-through.
Its corrugated skin had seen better days and great days,
Stained and worn thin by the rivulets
That watered the buddleia
That clung for dear life
Where the rivets had given way
To the battling wind
And the weekly AirWear backward-stamp
Of soul boys, good and bad.
The floor was dust and dog-ends, spit and stones,
Concrete lumps for tripping,
Hand-crushed polystyrene Bovril cups,
Fossil pies and programmes
Thrown down in the throes
Of ecstasy and disgust.
There is no sign of it now –
Not from the windows on the high street
Or the buildings on the hill.
There is no blue plaque on the wall of the superstore carpark,
Just neat white lines painted for oblivious shoppers.
But there should be.
It should say
Here stood the Farrar End,
That belonged to the people of Bangor.
(Painting by Pete Jones)