Herne Hill

rooted in a lonely tunnel, shuffled through

piss scented walls drunk on the sheltered

who fumble with homeless love and discharged proclamations,

excreted words stamped on by seasoned cruelty

collaborating with distrust

and in February, just as Spring starts.

 

And in February, just as Spring starts; the flaming laburnum,

though Nightfall beckons and hip hop from a base car

prowls the streets after Lock-in

and the sky rocks with laughter

as She rocks,

as if shook by an earthquake of words

that made urgent her tremulous frame.

 

Someone stops and admires the dog

a moment and the laburnum flames

yet these kind words, so long in coming

blow frivolous and collate with the dust

in the corner behind  the public piano,

the last bastion of free expression.

 

 

for d

 

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