The Lambeth Prophecy
In ancient rain, tender gardens
stripped, I’m caught in the drag
of giant girders, soon another
luxury city view.
trips my toes as I spring verticals,
rise higher and higher
through dissected sky
to find there is a God,
at least a guy who’d buy a round
for the lads outside The Pineapple,
his labours halted, at rest.
Razing, sweeping clean.
I must take stock: the oak, the echoing
green, before I gutter, stumble
The quick buck backs
the trend. This season it’s Dismal Grey
as in battleship, storm cloud, steel.
My days are numbered: little boxes
multiply over the city’s face
while I labour at the boundary fence.