Beneath a yawning ambivalent sky

Thynne Street shivers in the early dark

broken bits of Britain stir

and walk out scarf wrapped

coughing like gypsies dead from living

crackles scattered on a floor of frost

where life is a Londis of use-by dates

and mars bar breakfasts bought in haste

choking on the fumes of the bank quay station

fragranced by soap factory smoke.

 

Frost and hail trail footprints grey

beneath a cold and stone washed sky

and lies like words:

community, and

centre

as hid by ugly blankets of smog black brickwork

who knows what lives are lived and died

families struggle

food and clothing

toys and drugs

muslim clothing white hat white trousers

walking the hail caked streets to mosque.

 

Beneath a yawning ambivalent sky

morning has broken – like the first nose

of nighttime’s  heated angry debacle

overtired blue wicked one-a-penny

one-a-penny

wicked by the bottle

waking to recriminate on who said what and why

and why indeed

wicked by the bottle load

ten-a-penny

ten-a-penny

shut your noise.

 

Beneath a yawning ambivalent sky

broken bits of Britain stir

and make their shivering faltering walks

as heat escapes their very bones

to who knows where – who cares

to idle bag lady vagrant stand about

town centre hang out window shop

and dream a dream and plan escape

each broken piece of Britain dreams

beneath a yawning ambivalent sky

of gluing our lives together again

each fragment fastened to the next

with approximations to love.