Spleen: Cardiff Matchday Blues

some way after Baudelaire

These arcades are no Arcadia; steel glades

whose girdered glass matches the angle of the rain;

matches, too, its colour – the colour of pigeons,

tanks, the dishwater sluicing the drains

as the streets gargle their litter.

There’s a shop closed on every corner.

There’s a shop cloned on every corner.

In all the papers, deficit, terror, loss,

and at home, deficit, terror, loss.

Plastic bags ride the wind in torn surrender.

Here it is always half-time, where the stopped

clock gets it right

                           pretty much all day.