shopfront high street smiles
a giant is sleeping; the hydra curled.
Under the bulldog sovereign supermarket
lie ruined ancestral chambers
bloody, damp and burnt.
grim traffic tumbling overhead.
this concrete plastic shroud,
covering all but the now,
all other time:
built up but never down.
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.
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,
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.
be still, listen; wait:
the giant is stirring,
the Hydra awakes.