Monday 25 May 2009

OLD SUBURBAN ROAD

Houses crouch and frown through the years
Hot wires radiate the telegraph may-pole
Red chimneys climb askance the sky's grey ladder
Pointing lonely, lost
The flurry of fingers, now smokeless
This funeral pyre a hundred snows long.

Inscrutable windows penetrate my heart unblinking;
Iron-grey stare deep as midnight
Holding hostage with menace their puerile occupants
Who unknowing to the lull of television
Relinquish their lives to the shout of darkness.
Some who escape the gloom
Chivy their squares of green and with owner-occupier stare
Lay their lives feet-upward on the turf
And morning-paper grey
They once sipped coffee till their heart-attack.

To walk a stream of concrete like this
Is to wade the town's sullen promise
As if my years clasped tight with packed rooves
Were not free to walk alone.

Labels:

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home