The light laughs and dances on his tongue.
A taste of summers gone and summers not prompt enough.
Beery boys in lunchtime queues, lightly roasted by an illusive sun.
The office boy, the lunch ladies, the cyclist zipped, bursting from his mac.
Here a moment, gone the next.

The schoolgirl in her dolly shoes, the old man in pause,
Mesmerized Labradors weave in and out of trees and anything.
“You’ve drop a pound, miss”, but the tunes of now, hum in her head.

A seagull glides, watching, unnoticed, unknowing.
The postman catches his reflection in the glass door, sighs.
On it’s axis, turning, the door spins and motivates, turning.
Tall crowds of too many, leaning ignorant over the homeless man.
“He just leaves in his own time” says the reception.

A bell, a call, then nothing.
All as empty as church, now that churches are empty.
While inside as drunk and ferocious as hammered church mice.  
Sweaty, squeezed thighs melt into soft seats then, nothing.

Saturdays of singing, later shouting, “bread of heaven”,
Swearing to our god that London can hear us.
The same arguments, point after point, pint after pint.
Warm beer and the same conversation, it doesn’t get better.
But it doesn’t get worse.

JWS