by Andrew Peter Grant
Monday, November 11, 2002
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Creeping through pugnant smoke and the sounds of trades
Where Kingly merchants dispute above the hectic bobbing of heads.
Yelling through tired lungs, the consumer mob begin to advance
In every direction; Stealing every space I happen to tread.
An anxious mind without space anticipates a desperate retreat!;
From the violent packs of spoilt children and deranged Women!
A flight of crumbling stairs appear simple enough to frantic eyes,
Now approaches yet another fear; a desolate and secluded street.
An alley of modern archetectural ruins and filth sodden fables!
And of tumbling council developments!; surrounds one in harsh reality.
Crossing a cobbled road with not a soul to be seen - just people,
Amidst littered rubbish on the road: discarded appliances and tables.
One character - obviously noticing my seemingly middle-class past,
Attempts to make a secluded approach - as if becoming a shadow.
He drags his delinquet posture against walls and foul doorways
While the sun's perfume beats his enlarging shadow onto my path.
The instant warmth and relief of a crowded street approaches,
And in contrast - the dim menace lurks backward into shadows.
I breathe with comfort the polluted airs of the terrestrial street.
Now just a journey home as it rains seas between people and coaches.