The brixtonsun

Bind them up and
pull them on
tattered and torn they're almost gone
(the uneven road stretches on and on)

round the corner
strangers eyes meet
sparking flight to your feet

lost school boys in pyjamas
tread softly
on pigeons dead carcass

fish n' chip spit
swoops down, another brick it hit
fountains share the fresh air
trousers, however don't give a care

James the saint's hair
is all tangled up
smothering mouths of babies shut

windy currents carry him to sea
not a step more,
ever be

old and green it was not foreseen
St James, the street
he could not beat.

By J.F