tramps folded like used newspapers in doorways
forgotten remnants of a brighter more promising past
turning by the Red Lion towards the duck pond
firemen clean their gleaming red engines shining my memory
Whiteway; the pop factory road by the bomb damaged buildings
dressers hang over broken stairways their drawers askew
mirrors with their forgotten images of a cracked yesterday
being careful not to pick the fallen ornaments from shattered roads
lest you bring more than treasure away, with someone's past
Solicitors office with a larva lamp window, watching the blobs swim
the old pub with its roaring train sign, black beamed Tudor style
sweet shop and bakers with its smells of fresh baked delights
approaching the flats, which watch Bedfont Lane along its length
wondering what its like to live in the clouds?