No sound, no affirmation
we are treading splinters
thumbing a pile of yellowing books.
Ash shaken
so we emerge
resolution at the knell.
Moorhens then flew from the eaves
a blessing in disguise.

A knock back, a kick back
it all sounds the same
somewhere the tiredness settled in
like creaking wood,
there was no firm floor
just a ledge, peering,
no Sister in arms
to show her Mother's strength,
just a rudimentary Boy
drifting into survival mode,
a Mudlark dredging in the Thames
with no brass jug
just a porous defense

I wonder if she can chalk her hollow face
Sometimes her plumage wrangles in indisposition
Like Cormorants lacking buoyancy with  a sea breeze

Late Saturday night's forever epigrammatic.
I am always cleaning up.
I am tired of wasting my life with you.
I want real love,
not to treated like a fool
or being kicked around
like a lamb's wool cushion.

What has happened to our Croydon?
Where is Allders and the Warehouse Theatre?
even our Market is disappearing!
do you think you can tell,
when you stopped being our town?
Don't  put us in line
with Norbury.

Tate and Lyle, Mrs Beeton
and now attitude.

Ad nauseum, a kick to the head.