Sinister and barren is this place at this hour;
The long road side-pathways
Lit by a descending rush-hour twilight and the
Humming rhythmical passing lights
of cars. Low hanging trees, predictable pavement and the doorstep again.
Well furnished and lit functioning rooms in buildings swill into pitiful sunderance:
Stilted viscous slow-stewing pits, bringing us inevitably back.
Far removed seems such a blasphemous
Now for that
Place which withers
Into water coloured shades of fairytales and low
Sweet thrumming life which brimmed over and drew us from
Dank recesses of caves.
Everything good and simple is decanted from emulsions in this place
And left behind in piling rubble on borders,
Frantic seaweed massing on the shore.
Sitting next to each other on a bench
Or on two sides of a square table
In that never changing refuge.
That monumental disregarded place of pure
Living at it’s most right: working incessantly,
Cooking, laughing all the time,
Struggling with bills, gambling, fights.
Violence, hunger, hygiene, light.