Summer.


The speckled Thrush provides a counterpoint
For the Blackbirds hopeful love songs
Joined by the whistling postman
Steady white knee peddling
Down the lanes of early morning

Summer calls through wistful windows
To the sweaty shirt sleeved wage slaves
Living on recycled breath
In those stacked convenient prisons
Half a mile from Charing Cross

Parade you flouncing long legged girls
In your summer skirted fashions
Laughing at the feasting eyes
Smiling at the backward glances
As old men yearn and hunger
For return to younger days
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