by James Hall

Created on: November 19, 2010

'Sunday, pastnoon.'

Clouds peek, offer comfort

to our greygrit estate,

drowning

ice cream vans, pulled away

toothless children asked for flake’s

holding needles laced, words unkind

happy faces drop like tears

whilst wrinkled men

watch on, a blank

bygone love lost

shuffling in cigarette contempt

windows racked side by side

doors closed-in, the stumble of stray cats,

creeping

plain washing swills, cold wind whistles

above lonesome swings, chained

a playground defeated, silenced

of voices, of values

statements of race

faceless threats

scrawled loosely

in death-black, over unused water fountains

scruffy national flags

aimlessly strewn in fitful promise

dusty eyes once raised to these vibrant symbols

like fists invisible

are meeting concrete,

today

as a mother padlocks visions,

resting disappointed head, dizzy

against cracked floorboards

dreaming herself away

violin strings will crackle

from her famished record player

what’s the word for hope?

begs baby, rattle astrewn,

across a colourless cot

but the mother, has sunk

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