Email Poem

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Poem

Swans row the sky
just feet above the copper water.
Gulls twist their necks to watch 
a lone sailor on the prow
of a sludge-decked dredger.

On the slate thatched gambrels
of a lesser known roofs
spotters search for night bombers,
the figures have turned to stone
as do all oft repeated passages 
from dog-eared scripts.

London growls under the axels
of diesel driven dreams.
A stork has visited
an attic full of discarded toys
bells ring out for new born sales.
Barges reek still, just as when 
sweat was as common as dirt.

A window in Baker street
opens to let pipe smoke out,
it uncoils in the air
like a left handed genie.
Tower bridge drops upward,
to quarantine all gawkers.
Meat mongers return to their
blood-soaked cradles 
before the dawns leery light.

The city is a fable,
It is aflame with tall buses
that never were the same,
yet there is sea oil seeping
from the tunnels and runnels,
where entrenched gutter snipers 
lie low.
Here in the denizen dinge
the sure footed dead
avoid being seen
by the googly eyes of alien robots,
tin manikins that crab-walk
along Regents Street
barking Chinese commands
at oppressed corgis
and other less compliant drones.

On what was once Speakers Corner
hunched pavement artists
dribble into the chalky cracks
between showcased hoopla’s.
Slyly the loitering snollygosters,
lollygaggers and stumblebums,
crane their ductile necks to see
shell games in full view
even as they vanish.

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