There is light climbing up on the horizon where the day puts another disguise on and I have the kettle on.
The bells haven't started to ring yet but a debt I must pay is on the way,
Sunday and the faithful are beaming.
The older I become the more salt I throw over my shoulder,
protection is nine tenths of my religion.
It's a join the queue and take a pew the sermon begins about ten and then we'll be healed for next week when we're sealed
back into the city again.
An accordion player smokes a long cigarette sat on the seat where he's slept with his feet on the ground
I've seen him before in East Ham, a short rather fat man who carries his tunes rather well and sells people a song for the price of a tea,
he doesn't see me.
A refugee?
an immigrant?
back bent with the weight of his cross.
I toss another egg in the pan and wonder who's loss and what kind of man can stand and ignore what shouts in your face outside the door.
No one goes somewhere to get nowhere.
We travel on with the scarecrow,
the one that puts straw in our ears.