Three pronged leaves stain the footpath.
Yesterday’s rain indents their tridents
Around Shoreditch. Swept away by council,
Amusingly, at the start of autumn.
In October, when morning’s golden sun
Lies shadows on each building you pass,
This building - a holy one - has front steps
That bed the bedless.
In October, the tattooed pavement
On Pittfield Street illuminates with lives
Past and present. Spring’s leaves have now fallen
And left these trident swords to battle winter.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
Three pronged leaves stain the footpath.
Yesterday’s rain indents their tridents
Around Shoreditch. Swept away by council,
Amusingly, at the start of autumn.
In October, when morning’s golden sun
Lies shadows on each building you pass,
This building - a holy one - has front steps
That bed the bedless.
In October, the tattooed pavement
On Pittfield Street illuminates with lives
Past and present. Spring’s leaves have now fallen
And left these trident swords to battle winter.
Request permission to use this poem