The Penny-Toy Man

He has always lived here. Scarred in his tenement jail and locked within the dreams of forgotten children. He has always walked here. In lane and yard, he strolls and sings his mournful song by the nicotine sun. He has always watched here. A collector of London’s sweepings, a guardian beneath the steeple of Christ Church. He has always fed here. From neglect’s sweet harvest they flock to him and slip onto his stage of dead marionettes. He will always sleep here. Fears drain away and stories may fade, but his sour breath will forever slumber in stone and mud.