Brownfield
I hope
The chink of falling change was caught
Beneath my steps
The sign says NO SIMILAR ACTIVITIES
But I can still hear the accordion
And creaking chairs
And see bright colours set in grey
Flags flapping in the wind
And hanging pink and green lays in triangles
The boatman is colourfully adorned
And ostentatiously bearded
White lines dripping down from nesting holes
And the man tapping on his coke can
A whisper between the fountains
A symphony of sneezes
Jumper on, jumper off
It reminds me of being
A funny sort of bird
We like to sing
In various states of yellow to fuzz
Padding paws and shoes
Another city sound
Long distance calls in the ocean
A funny sort of bird song
And human- footsteps, singing, speaking, crying, humming, shouting,
laughing
All its noisy glory
A truck, the wind, voices, a street cleaner reversing
Cars and clanging metal
The chaos finds you
The old-boy posse - white haired & throwing shapes
Synchronised signalling
Grew up in the bomb sites of Southern England
Lady G’s done her rounds but the door’s still open
Mechanisms exposed
She’s been doing this for years
She’s got sloppy - who’s closing the doors?
The last one standing