In the threat of a tomorrow

and the gradual collapse of antiquity,

washed with a modern type of sorrow

and with closed eye but an open mind –


On the wide slabs of concrete pavement,

lined with stained chewing gum, spewed coke

and the remnants of yesterday evening,

teenagers in Nikes

chain smoke cigarettes by the feet of King George.


As the steps to descend into paranoid hell,

cramped with tourists,

clutching handbags

like their children in war zones

and doorknobs weigh the minimum wage,

a nameless body is flung from the towers of


and strokes the shoreline of the Thames –

adjacent to St Thomas’,

later found by the clown

of the Southbank society.


In Trafalgar a love torn starlet

of the media page,

absent of sleep or will

falls into a book of Hemmingway –

and chefs sit at

round tables in the early afternoon

cutting cards and wild boars,

whilst preachers wait for God

outside Leicester Square Waterstones.


As rain pounds on pigeons,

grass encroaches on the urban,

actors fondle in the back

of West End

and crisp air burns the cheeks

of children –


I have now employed a housekeeper –

Just for someone to talk to.


Niamh Collins


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