John Baldwin


To Much Time On My Hands

Beneath the weight of London’s streets,
Where aged sinews pulse and beat,
Down below old blitz kreig fodder,
Beneath the lines that tube trains follow,
In earthen pits of crumpled bone,
That decaying bare ill fruit and grow,
Around amongst the roots of trees,
Which suckle on their crimson feed,
Beneath rubber wheel and toot of horn,

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