London

I looked up
and suddenly it was London,
the one of terraces
showing their scabby arses
to us,

the London of bent sheds
and blown clothes horses,
of propped bikes and kids’ toys,
and down in the ballast
the litter of a thousand takeaways,

whilst in the distance,
above the patchwork of tiles,
sit the erect spires and dreams
of the ever-dead empire architects,
when God and the trains ran on time.

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