Morning

Next door,

Martha is singing Jesus songs,

her gilt edged voice

dances over sagging fence palings

bringing redemption

and a sour undercurrent of her

vodka martini’s to settle upon us.

Bright eyed children gather

on the pavement

the scrawled

bold bubble Graffiti

of tagger's

beneath their grubby feet.

Unread,

unheard

their words

are Soul Songs

a screamed silent imprecation

pouring injustice and abject despair

in equal quantities

amongst the pure joy

of saying

“Here we are, hear us”.

A blazing litany of me,

to fade and wash away

beneath the tread of urban decay.

Martha’s song ends,

arthritic hands seek

the murky swirl

of the vodka bottle.

The children

melt away

blurred ghosts

returning to the

haze of the street scape

once more.

A moments beauty

dispersing into mid mornings

crisp air