The Archive

Sunday, 14 September 2014


The imported, bags collected, depart.
Through searing rain and hostile fits from heaven
This bus weary, packed, wonders
What were the cooling towers for?
As we squander cash for food
And traverse the corrugated bridge
Where the icy rain grates the rust,
Back to penned seats.

There are flat plains and distant hills veiled
As we make out faces in the putrid stains
That scatter the concrete underpass.
A kinder life is forming with
Jimmy’s face, my face and yours.
And still, as the sky paints darker,
I come to liken this place to our nostalgia
That lingers in future memories.


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