The harrowed city
swirls with grit;
it’s thundery
with chutes emitting
shards, broken stone
from in behind
brickwork going, gone
to dust within.
New little canopies
appear. Wooden partitions
shield the passerby
from inward operations
(something else under the wrecker,
shovel, and scoop…). Through spy-holed
fences, we inspect
the backs of streets we knew
before.
Some starts should not be
stopped at a dead-end.
This habitual short-cut ought to
open on my old friend
the boarded-up, blue, disused
warehouse, well known to me.
Here where it stood is — just a
pavement! and empty sky!
With the old short-cut in mind
will we bear with it, white and flat?
Somehow the cars keep blinding
the last few alleys we had.
These handsome new high-rises
help us to overlook
throbbing cement-truck noises
and gritty slime underfoot.
Yesterday’s old blue eyesore is
now a new tidied-up site,
but, my city, it’s still in your lanes and mews
that your heart beats.