Red rags, hoodlum weeds
on traffic islands, blow-ins,
sirens, the dog pound:
you can hear those rebels yelp.
Buddleia kisses my face
under clouds that are not ours.

*

Ghost dogs whining, tyres
mummified in dust; lost rooms,
floors; stolen doors, clocks.
Bespoken broken-windows.
A honey-comb hollowed out.

*

Eyes, nose, a mouth drawn
in simple Picasso-line
on an inside wall.
We are here to add eyebrows,
murmurs on stairwells, lilies,
stainless steel-flanges, doodles.

*

You can hear them breathe,
wooden mullions,
sun-cracked piping, bare rafting
stretched sheets of water
ripped by trees, in mid-descent.

*

Workshops recovered,
the brick facades water-gunned
tangerine. Cat-less
streets. Incense of damp sofa,
hops, mint and iron filings.

*

Green Lane bell-tower
and scaffolded fascia:
a film set between takes.
I recall The Alamo,
Santa Anna’s bugle call
appealing for surrender.

*

Listen to Steve Sawyer reading his poems on location here.