Dartford

Dartford You sit as a grey silent rushing stream Of concrete, metal, with grey marbled sky Leaning undefinable towards the Payne's charcoal Landscape So relentlessly Created by man's coarse fingers and mind Were you ever Mother nature's emerald green belt? Which swooned around Londinium As black ravens scour your barren ribs To pluck the last few morsels of flesh As thread bare conifers nearly scratch the sky Whilst containers muted litter the landscape And giant neutral windmills turn as propellers on a jet Which never reach Anywhere But the eye As your concrete snakes Tunnels and fly-over Roundabouts here and there Lit by splashes of Red Green Amber As emergency blue Screams in my rear view Mirror Just follow the White line that pushes past this place Of just passing Dartford Just on the outskirts of London