Strood Lights

Something stirs:
beneath neon
shopfront high street smiles
a giant is sleeping; the hydra curled.

Under the bulldog sovereign supermarket
lie ruined ancestral chambers
bloody, damp and burnt.
Carbonated evidence
sleeps fitfully;
grim traffic tumbling overhead.
One way:
this concrete plastic shroud,
covering all but the now,
rendering redundant
all other time:
built up but never down.


But wait:
close you eyes
and see; better, feel:

The flowing of Hadrianic waterworks.

Saxons grieving on Broomhill.

Knights Templar in warehouse rags,
polyethylene Saint George’s flags
fly plastic in the Holy Land.


So tread careful
for you tread upon graves:
tombs, caskets, oak lined chambers.
Burnt offerings
by golden Cantianic sides,
undisturbed, yet buried further
by the weight.
This awful weight.
The weight of the useless corporate new.
The weight of more and of the same,
that brays so brash of sweet F.A.
While ten thousand words,
are gagged silent,
concrete mutes.
Rough Latin, sweet Angle songs,
that would tell all
but can tell none.
Dull progressive fists hold tight their tongues
and pour further earth atop.


A silence falls.
But yet:
be still, listen; wait:
the giant is stirring,
the Hydra awakes.


About andrewday82

My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right. View all posts by andrewday82

5 responses to “Strood Lights

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