Going Going I

As trains roar into London and other great cities today, the streets we walk  reflect the people we see around us. I always find it interesting how a place can have a personality.


Going Going I


The dawn downs feather grey

But cold as steel

With a flash of horizon fire

Indicating the Sun’s decision to climb


Out of bed


The clouds slowly roll themselves up

Encouraged by cajoling pinpricks from steeples and spires

Revealing a carpet of cut-blue glass

Scorched by the engravings of jet fuel ownership


The train rocks and bucks, thundering towards the Sun

Catapulting through tunnels, tearing up the suburban scrub

Eating up the ground, inexorably,

To the fiery edge of the world


The city downs roof slate grey

But cold as steel

With a flash of horizon fire

Indicating the train’s decision to rumble


Out of town


The tracks spiderweb themselves across the land

Ignoring the eloquent protests of English meadowlanes

Cutting through a carpet of cut-green grass

Scored by the crisscross lines of progress


The streets tower and plunge, grasping ever outwards

Devouring the landscape, paving the grey way through suburban scrub


To the dull, cold, steely, feather grey edge of the world


Or perhaps it’s the edge of conscious thought’s capacity

Amongst London’s pensive, steely, feather grey, far-strewn suburban scrub

And while we think on our homes, let’s remember those who died protecting theirs, and ours, across the world in many conflicts. Never forget.

Sloth,  respectfully,  out.




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