The train on the bridge, with copper wagons of empty clank
jolt over a barren winter arch; houses bare of warmth watch in time.
The mascara soot, the engine smoke perfume wait to rank
their way onto the rough theatre of a desolate country in blasé grime.
jolt over a barren winter arch; houses bare of warmth watch in time.
The mascara soot, the engine smoke perfume wait to rank
their way onto the rough theatre of a desolate country in blasé grime.
The slagheap, a wonder of the modern world, the Pyramid of Grime;
a cheap, warm, labour-grey morning, with no sun or spring; two families there
watch, unspeaking, but an ignorant dog ignores the malaise of the time.
The pastel part houses, without auto-identity, wait in the morning air.
On the corner by a lamppost, a mother and daughter wait in rank
watching the father go by the unlit pub; a discreet distance away,
another man waits, in patient retiring umbrella support, to thank
the aura of the French azure sky, by the bon appetit of Swansea bay.
watching the father go by the unlit pub; a discreet distance away,
another man waits, in patient retiring umbrella support, to thank
the aura of the French azure sky, by the bon appetit of Swansea bay.
The bleak brick, the wetting grass, watch a tawny time.
By no autumn trees, the vicar greets with a father’s care.
Quiet buildings wait, a grey atmosphere in smoking climb.
The haute couture chill wind and urchin rain keep the pub bare.
A young couple, in chic terrace-talk, hold each other, uncaring of the grime,
wait for the upcoming bus, by rigorous telegraph post, in rank.
The warm ochre house, the girl in bright ruby dress, watching in time
the train on the bridge, with jolting copper wagons of empty clank.
