Drizzling cold salt in the air, 
particles of sight blocked,
everywhere
on this winter twilight,
or so these sepia Victorians say,
in old London town,
at the end of a foggy winter’s day
a boy, a raggedly boy,
 runs down the strand skipping
and piping: “apples and pears, 
good ol’ apples and pairs!”
This is at the dead centre of the empire
where everything’s for sale
as the minstrel plays
and hears the clip-clop of horses’ hooves
as silence falls into the dystant screams, as the sky lightens
outside the theatre
where the darkness thickens
& where all is nought, all is nought! 

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