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,
Under strike of sole and paving stone,
In diggers jaws of crunching teeth,
That allow perhaps a fleeting glimpse,
Of spirit and a victims guts,
Of air raid brick and Anderson nuts,
Exhumed for only daylight minutes,
By hard hat wearing high viz jackets,
Only then once being chewed,
Into the earth reintroduced,
Without ceremony or hint of feeling
Just an epitaph devoid of meaning
Sunday, February 10, 2008
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