Unhappy realisation

Harsh, bitter, twisted

Sunlight slices and sharp steely needles

prick, sting and burn

A soul of swirling dust sighs-

Dark and forlorn the sad freezing winds

whip and lash at the fragments

The fetid taste of life itself

lingers slow and numbs the mind

All vaguest of dreams lie crushed and trodden

deeply buried in hard metallic cases,

and drowned in silted poison

The crust is all but gone now

Foundations old and rotted

collapse slowly, agonisingly

too slow

The pain, too drawn out

and stretched beyond all fathomable recognition

Grating and shrieking

Somehow reminiscent of the death of death itself

But this tortuous triumph of all evil

Is not so forgiving

The binding pain is eternal

and the gasping terror of the scream

infinite

London June 97

The goal

Blanched and brisk, clouds stumble and chase

Speeding through the blue beyond

The grass is now and the grass is then

The music shouts out and calls

and people are drawn irresistibly up

The light is whispering and we are bound

to journey the full distance

A distance we have chosen

For no-one else can choose

And yet the white dove is here

Flying swift and low

It brings us the promise of truth

Dreamed of by those fleeting clouds

out on the windy sky

That though the sun might fall tonight

it but shines elsewhere

to find yet others upon its path

and to rise again

Up and away till all is one

and there is none?

London July 97

City and suburb

Red smiles and chimney faces

jut and jostle, ever reaching skyward

Grey and Brown the layers of discontinuity

rise again and again

Frowning faces and laughing voices leap forward

from structures old and new

Characteristic of what?

Fragments of some vague distorted perception

or reality perhaps in it's own twisted dream

Vast plains choked and cluttered with

bricks whose purpose, now forgotten are

cemented together and blinkered by smog

They represent the people they so patiently serve.

Here and there an odd window swings open

Unstable and cautious, on tight hinges

to venture through

the too old dusty blinds

as the rain and riverletts form on the roofs

The stonework weeps for the those shuttered within

In vain some distant thunder calls out

The winter wind but sighs and sways

Weariness descends on the endless vale

Perhaps tomorrow will bring something new?

or perhaps nothing

London July 97