Sunday morning
sluggish streets blink
and whisper to themselves
that there was sun, yesterday

the jagged methadone
of a bad night’s sleep
giving all the weight
none of the peace

technicolour memories
seem to be made false
by this overcast sky
so happiness lies

in the old days
a cigarette and a cup of coffee
would smooth edges,
in the good old days

Sitting on a train waiting,
Looking at all the beautiful people
Surrounding me with their naivety
Ignorantly bypassing the sunset
The way the trees frame the clouds
The last glimmer of light fading
Landing at a girls face
Wrapped in her blanket crying
Pretending not to notice the stares
Trying to believe somebody cares
Head in her hands listening to music
Imagining worlds in which she exists
As more than just another ******* a train, trying to find her way home.

The flag hangs in the window, only three corners tacked down
- Forlornly it droops, its patriotism stooped –
As the red and white stare out at the world, wearing a frown.

The ivy smacks of Eden, a paradise in a cage
- Entangled in the wire fence, snaking exotic and dense –
Coiling its way past the bouquet, an epitaph to a grieving mothers rage

Warriors of the Empire, heads bent low to the driving rain
- The fight ******, their defiance bucked –
Sheep bleating in time, soldiers marching in line, to the shepherds refrain