Old Labour slogans, Venceremos, dates for demonstrations
like passed deadlines – they must be disappointed
to find they still exist. Half-way down the street,
a sign struggles to its feet and says Brent.
The surfaces are friable, broken and dirty, a skin unsuitable
for chemical treatment. Building, repair and demolition
go on simultaneously, indistinguishably. Change and decay.
– When change is arrested, what do you get?
The Sun, our Chinese take-away, is being repainted.
I see an orange topcoat calls for a pink undercoat.
A Chinese calendar girl, naked, chaste and varnished,
simpers behind potplants like a jungle dawn.
Joy, local, it says in the phone-booth, with a number
next to it. Or Petra. Or Out of order, and an arrow.
This last gives you pause, ten minutes, several weeks ...
Delay deters the opportunist as much as doubt.
In an elementary deception, the name of the street
is taken from a country town, and when I get up
I find my education is back to haunt me: Dickens House,
Blake Court, Austen House, thirteen-storey giants.
Some Sunday mornings, blood trails down the street
from the night before. Stabbing, punch-up or nosebleed,
it’s impossible to guess, but the drops fell thickly and easily
on the paving-stones, too many for the rules of hopscotch.
The roadway itself is reddish, the faded spongy brick
of the terrace is overpowered by the paintwork’s
sweet dessert colours. They spoil it, but you understand
they are there as the sugar in tomato soup is there.
Clouds come over from the West, as always in England
the feeling that the sea is just beyond the next horizon:
a thick, Byzantine crucifix on a steep schoolhouse roof,
the slippery, ecclesiastical gleam of wet slate.
Dogs vet the garbage before the refuse collectors.
Brazen starlings and pigeons, ‘flying rats’, go over
what is left. Rough-necked, microcephalous, they have
too much white on their bodies, like calcium defectives.
The pigeons mate in full view: some preliminary billing,
then the male flutters his wings as though to break a fall ...
They inhabit a ruined chiropodist’s, coming and going freely
through broken windows into their cosy excremental hollow.
The old man in the vest in the old people’s home
would willingly watch us all day. In their windows,
a kind of alcove, they keep wine-bottles and candlesticks,
Torvill and Dean, a special occasion on ice.
The motor-mews has flat roofs of sandpaper or tarpaper.
One is terraced, like three descending trays of gravel.
Their skylights are angled towards the red East,
some are truncated pyramids, others whole glazed shacks.
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