Tuesday, August 29, 2006

London imagained

By Adam Gibson

a Portabello terrace
with bifold doors double-glazed
to keep out the cold and noise;
we buy our vegetables
from down the road
at the open air stalls.

I call home as often as i can
but the weeks disappear into seasons sometimes
and I've forgotten everyone's birthdays
several times over and,
on snuggled nights as the
water-heated oil heaters
switch off in the dark early hours,
I wonder if everyone's forgotten me.

my passport: whereabouts unknown,
my accent: in the process of being lost
somewhere between the
after-work pub and the evening news.

these are quiet glow nights
surrounded by millions of people in
every direction;

the Tube station trains come and go
and many people are going missing,
last seen on highway lay-bys,
the frozen mossed wastelands
between the Empire-built traintracks of
another cold England altogether
that I can imagine tonight.

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