Signal passed at danger
Hatfield to Kings Cross
and gael time locks
a Theologian,
at 45 degree resurrection
from the bridge
over Darkes Lane
the masonry falls again
where the cypress ferns
empties glint,
over mock tudor cul-de-sacs
it's for the children's sake
like mud mounds or butter fields
under pylons, there
are Blakean children under the
London Orbital
its ceiling concrete
to runic prophecies
and walking is virtue
would go to the garden
city for ginger
and irish soda bread
like ancient drovers’ tracks,
the sprawl of london
where the unicorn wears a crown
of moss and gets buried
along the whole 127 Mile
city turned inside-out
and salvage at least one cobbled hill
still twisting about a living good
humming on You. and come clean
in thrashes the whole 127 Mile
watch rats on mutton lane,
beneath your shoes pillboxes
grey cement gnomes
in the morning outside
The Umbanda Temple
behind a St. George flag configured into
popcorn, cigarettes and hard cider
the spirit of The Green Man
is by VPS security
