Another Bloody Spring.
I want to walk and sing for after all it is another spring
and that's what poets do,
but here upon the common ground is rotting litter all around,
and something loathsome on my shoe.
Pages torn from some old catalogue,
crushed lager cans, the offending dog,
spike-haired swains that leer
at breasts sudden and modest as snowdrops.
A scream, an obscene shout, the children play.
Bev's a slag and Gaz is gay
the new graffiti sneers.
The cruising police car does not stop.
Blossoms shake in some pale cold breeze
then twinkle down into the slimy silent streets.
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