In the early 1980’s, the old-style, red, London bus, was my choice of transport to get around the capital. I was unable to afford a car. London Underground trains did not extend into the part of South London, where I lived at the time.

In the early 1980’s, the old-style, red, London bus, was my choice of transport to get around the capital. I was unable to afford a car. London Underground trains did not extend into the part of South London, where I lived at the time.
From Bermondsey, not Babel
Not Agrona, more Becuille
Factual, not fable
She was the banquet
At my table
Above Kite Hill, you searched for the right breeze.
I waited, my manjha ready to cut.
Below, an assembly clapped and cheered
As a million eyes were averted
By sordid headlines and Sunday lattes.
He had the gift of the gab, spoke
Anthologies of pubs and poetry
Beware of his tales and promises
Sooner or later he will let you down
Follow you with an unsettling silence
Freeze you in your own Winter
The staggering genius of ordinary lives
Not a thorn between them
You run to catch up with the sun
But she is sinking as she swings
To and fro, on a piece of frayed rope
Until she is lost, in a relative way
You are older, older than wishing time away
Along with all her endearments, frittering
And wasting hours in an offhand style
Collapsed on a wooden bench
We took a second to search for nostalgia
Taking more than a fallen age to come
A name is a name, why tinker with it
Music Credit: Monolog Rockstars – The Bad Wake