Primrose hill

The hawk-talon moon torn into the sky,
The sun, owl-eyed lurking in the dark.
The war-stricken city;
Great shards of glass,
A mere cut on England’s cheek.

The faceless city; a flood of faceless faces
Streaming through the rubble,
Through fallen corpses of giants slain.

A city worn down by endless rattling of carriages
By squeaking of brakes, by tramping of feet in the tunnels.
Outside, foul-mouthed bleating domes the roads:
Tyre-squeals, bus-horns and stop-pings.

From here, I can see the noise of the city
And hear the wind grope through the tunnel of my ear.

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