The night charade and other assorted chimes at the Bedford,
sometimes I stare at the moon,
it cannot comprehend what is going on
lost devotions, hedonism, no bulwark,
it stretches as far as the Wandle river
where a
once rusted supermarket trolley spoke as an epiphany,
for the immemorial down trodden.
Maria agreed, hope is transient,
perhaps unaware of the allusion.